Hence, bashful cunning,
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence.
I am your wife if you will marry me.
--TEMPEST
Amabel awoke to such a sense of relief and repose that she scarcely
liked to ask herself the cause, lest it might ruffle her complete peace.
Those words ‘all right,’ seemed to be enough to assure her that the
cloud was gone.
Her mother came in, told her one or two of the main facts, and took her
down under her wing, only stopping by the way for a greeting to Charles,
who could not rise till after breakfast. He held her fast, and gazed up
in her face, but she coloured so deeply, cast down her eyes, and looked
so meek and submissive, that he let her go, and said nothing.
The breakfast party were for the most part quiet, silent, and happy.
Even Charlotte was hushed by the subdued feeling of the rest, and Mr.
Edmonstone’s hilarity, though replied to in turn by each, failed to wake
them into mirth. Guy ran up and down-stairs continually, to wait upon
Charles; and thus the conversation was always interrupted as fast as it
began, so that the only fact that came out was the cause of the lateness
of their arrival yesterday. Mr. Edmonstone had taken it for granted that
Guy, like Philip, would watch for the right time, and warn him, while
Guy, being excessively impatient, had been so much afraid of letting
himself fidget, as to have suffered the right moment to pass, and then
borne all the blame.
‘How you must have wanted to play the Harmonious Blacksmith,’ said
Charlotte.
‘I caught myself going through the motions twice,’ said Guy.
Mrs. Edmonstone said to herself that he might contest the palm of temper
with Amy even; the difference being, that hers was naturally sweet, his
a hasty one, so governed that the result was the same. When breakfast
was over, as they were rising, Guy made two steps towards Amabel,
at whom he had hitherto scarcely looked, and said, very low, in his
straightforward way: ‘Can I speak to you a little while?’
Amy’s face glowed as she moved towards him, and her mother said
something about the drawing-room, where the next moment she found
herself. She did not use any little restless arts to play with her
embarrassment; she did not torment the flowers or the chimney ornaments,
nor even her own rings, she stood with her hands folded and her head a
little bent down, like a pendant blossom, ready to listen to whatever
might be said to her.
He did not speak at first, but moved uneasily about. At last he came
nearer, and began speaking fast and nervously.
‘Amabel, I want you to consider--you really ought to think whether this
is not a very bad thing for you.’
The drooping head was raised, the downcast lids lifted up, and the
blue eyes fixed on him with a look at once confiding and wondering. He
proceeded--
‘I have brought you nothing but unhappiness already. So far as you have
taken any interest in me, it could cause you only pain, and the more I
think of it, the more unfit it seems that one so formed for light, and
joy, and innocent mirth, should have anything to do with the darkness
that is round me. Think well of it. I feel as if I had done a selfish
thing by you, and now, you know, you are not bound. You are quite free!
No one knows anything about it, or if they did, the blame would rest
entirely with me. I would take care it should. So, Amy, think, and think
well, before you risk your happiness.’
‘As to that,’ replied Amy, in a soft, low voice, with _such_ a look of
truth in her clear eyes, ‘I must care for whatever happens to you, and
I had rather it was with you, than without you,’ she said, casting them
down again.
‘My Amy!--my own!--my Verena!’--and he held fast one of her hands, as
they sat together on the sofa--‘I had a feeling that so it might be
through the very worst, yet I can hardly believe it now.’
‘Guy,’ said Amy, looking up, with the gentle resolution that had lately
grown on her, ‘you must not take me for more than I am worth, and I
should like to tell you fairly. I did not speak last time, because
it was all so strange and so delightful, and I had no time to think,
because I was so confused. But that is a long time ago, and this has
been a very sad winter, and I have thought a great deal. I know, and you
know, too, that I am a foolish little thing; I have been silly little
Amy always; you and Charlie have helped me to all the sense I have, and
I don’t think I could ever be a clever, strong-minded woman, such as one
admires.’
‘Heaven forbid!’ ejaculated Guy; moved, perhaps, by a certain
remembrance of St. Mildred’s.
‘But,’ continued Amy, ‘I believe I do really wish to be good, and I know
you have helped me to wish it much more, and I have been trying to learn
to bear things, and so’--out came something, very like a sunny smile,
though some tears followed--‘so if you do like such a silly little
thing, it can’t be helped, and we will try to make the best of her. Only
don’t say any more about my being happier without you, for one thing I
am very sure of, Guy, I had rather bear anything with you, than know you
were bearing it alone. I am only afraid of being foolish and weak, and
making things worse for you.’
‘So much worse! But still,’ he added, ‘speak as you may, my Amy, I
cannot, must not, feel that I have a right to think of you as my own,
till you have heard all. You ought to know what my temper is before you
risk yourself in its power. Amy, my first thought towards Philip was
nothing short of murder.’
She raised her eyes, and saw how far entirely he meant what he said.
‘The first--not the second,’ she murmured.
‘Yes, the second--the third. There was a moment when I could have given
my soul for my revenge!’
‘Only a moment!’
‘Only a moment, thank Heaven! and I have not done quite so badly since.
I hope I have not suffered quite in vain; but if that shock could
overthrow all my wonted guards, it might, though I pray Heaven it may
not, it might happen again.’
‘I think you conquered yourself then, and that you will again,’ said
Amy.
‘And suppose I was ever to be mad enough to be angry with you?’
Amy smiled outright here. ‘Of course, I should deserve it; but I think
the trouble would be the comforting you afterwards. Mamma said’--she
added, after a long silence, during which Guy’s feeling would not let
him speak--‘mamma said, and I think, that you are much safer and better
with such a quick temper as yours, because you are always struggling and
fighting with it, on the real true religious ground, than a person more
even tempered by nature, but not so much in earnest in doing right.’
‘Yes, if I did not believe myself to be in earnest about that, I could
never dare to speak to you at all.’
‘We will help each other,’ said Amy; ‘you have always helped me, long
before we knew we cared for each other!’
‘And, Amy, if you knew how the thought of you helped me last winter,
even when I thought I had forfeited you for ever.’
Their talk only ceased when, at one o’clock, Mrs. Edmonstone, who had
pronounced in the dressing-room that three hours was enough for them
at once, came in, and asked Guy to go and help to carry Charles
down-stairs.
He went, and Amy nestled up to her mother, raising her face to be
kissed.
‘It is very nice!’ she whispered; and then arranged her brother’s sofa,
as she heard his progress down-stairs beginning. He was so light and
thin as to be very easily carried, and was brought in between Guy
and one of the servants. When he was settled on the sofa, he began
thus,--‘There was a grand opportunity lost last winter. I was
continually rehearsing the scene, and thinking what waste it was to go
through such a variety of torture without the dignity of danger. If I
could but have got up ever so small an alarm, I would have conjured my
father to send for Guy, entreated pathetically that the reconciliation
might be effected, and have drawn my last breath clasping their hands,
thus! The curtain falls!’
He made a feint of joining their hands, put his head back, and shut his
eyes with an air and a grace that put Charlotte into an ecstasy, and
made even Amy laugh, as she quitted the room, blushing.
‘But if it had been your last breath,’ said Charlotte, ‘you would not
have been much the wiser.’
‘I would have come to life again in time to enjoy the “coup de theatre”.
I had some thoughts of trying an overdose of opium; but I thought Dr.
Mayerne would have found me out. I tell you, because it is fair I
should have the credit; for, Guy, if you knew what she was to me all the
winter, you would perceive my superhuman generosity in not receiving you
as my greatest enemy.’
‘I shall soon cease to be surprised at any superhuman generosity,’ said
Guy. ‘But how thin you are, Charlie; you are a very feather to carry; I
had no notion it had been such a severe business.’
‘Most uncommon!’ said Charles, shaking his head, with a mock solemnity.
‘It was the worst of all,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘six weeks of constant
pain.’
‘How very sorry Philip must have been!’ exclaimed Guy.
‘Philip?’ said Charlotte.
‘Why, was it not owing to him? Surely, your father told me so. Did not
he let you fall on the stairs?’
‘My dear father!’ exclaimed Charles, laughing; ‘every disaster that
happens for the next twelvemonth will be imputed to Philip.’
‘How was it, then?’ said Guy.
‘The fact was this,’ said Charles; ‘it was in the thick of the
persecution of you, and I was obliged to let Philip drag me upstairs,
because I was in a hurry. He took the opportunity of giving me some
impertinent advice which I could not stand. I let go his arm, forgetting
what a dependent mortal I am, and down I should assuredly have gone, if
he had not caught me, and carried me off, as a fox does a goose, so
it was his fault, as one may say, in a moral, though not in a physical
sense.’
‘Then,’ said his mother, ‘you do think your illness was owing to that
accident?’
‘I suppose the damage was brewing, and that the shake brought it into an
active state. There’s a medical opinion for you!’
‘Well, I never knew what you thought of it before,’ said Mrs.
Edmonstone.
‘Why, when I had a condor to pick on Guy’s account with Philip, I was
not going to pick a crow on my own,’ said Charles. ‘Oh! is luncheon
ready; and you all going? I never see anybody now. I want the story of
the shipwreck, though, of course, Ben What’s-his-name was the hero, and
Sir Guy Morville not a bit of it.’
Laura wanted to walk to East Hill, and the other young people agreed to
go thither, too.
‘It will be nice to go to church there to-day’ said Amy, in a
half-whisper, heard only by Guy, and answered by a look that showed how
well he understood and sympathized.
‘Another thing,’ said Amy, colouring a good deal; ‘shall you mind my
telling Mary? I behaved so oddly last night, and she was so kind to me
that I think I ought.’
Mary had seen enough last night to be very curious to-day, though hardly
expecting her curiosity to be gratified. However, as she was putting on
her bonnet for church, she looked out of her window, and saw the four
coming across the fields from Hollywell. Guy and Amy did not walk into
the village arm-in-arm; but, as they came under the church porch, Guy,
unseen by all held out his hand, sought hers, and, for one moment,
pressed it fervently. Amy knew he felt this like their betrothal.
After the service, they stood talking with Mr. Ross and Mary, for some
little time. Amy held apart, and Mary saw how it was. As they were about
to turn homewards, Amy said quickly, ‘Come and walk a little way home
with me.’
She went on with Mary before the rest, and when out of sight of them
all, said, ‘Mary!’ and then stopped short.
‘I guess something, Amy,’ said Mary.
‘Don’t tell any one but Mr. Ross.’
‘Then I have guessed right. My dear little Amy, I am very glad! So that
was the reason you flew out of the room last evening, and looked so
bright and glowing!’
‘It was so good of you to ask no questions!’
‘I don’t think I need ask any now, Amy; for I see in your face how right
and happy it all is.’
‘I can’t tell you all, Mary, but I must one thing,--that the whole
terrible story arose from his helping a person in distress. I like you
to know that.’
‘Papa was always sure that he had not been to blame,’ said Mary.
‘Yes; so Charlie told me, and that is the reason I wanted you to know.’
‘Then, Amy, something of this had begun last summer?’
‘Yes; but not as it is now. I did not half know what it was then.’
‘Poor dear little Amy,’ said Mary; ‘what a very sad winter it must have
been for you!’
‘Oh, very!’ said Amy; ‘but it was worse for him, because he was quite
alone; and here every one was so kind to me. Mamma and Laura, and poor
Charlie, through all his illness and pain, he was so very kind. And do
you know, Mary, now it is all over, I am very glad of this dismal time;
for I think that it has taught me how to bear things better.’
She looked very happy. Yet it struck Mary that it was strange to hear
that the first thought of a newly-betrothed maiden was how to brace
herself in endurance. She wondered, however, whether it was not a more
truly happy and safe frame than that of most girls, looking forward to a
life of unclouded happiness, such as could never be realized. At least,
so it struck Mary, though she owned to herself that her experience of
lovers was limited.
Mary walked with Amy almost to the borders of Hollywell garden; and when
the rest came up with them, though no word passed, there was a great
deal of congratulation in her warm shake of Guy’s hand, and no lack of
reply in his proud smile and reddening cheek. Charlotte could not help
turning and going back with her a little way, to say, ‘Are not you
delighted, Mary? Is not Amy the dearest thing in the world? And you
don’t know, for it is a secret, and I know it, how very noble Guy has
been, while they would suspect him.’
‘I am very, very glad, indeed! It is everything delightful.’
‘I never was so happy in my life,’ said Charlotte; ‘nor Charlie, either.
Only think of having Guy for our brother; and he is going to send for
Bustle to-morrow.’
Mary laughed, and parted with Charlotte, speculating on the cause of
Laura’s graver looks. Were they caused by the fear of losing her sister,
or by a want of confidence in Guy?
That evening, how happy was the party at Hollywell, when Charles put
Guy through a cross-examination on the shipwreck, from the first puff of
wind to the last drop of rain; and Guy submitted very patiently, since
he was allowed the solace of praising his Redclyffe fishermen.
Indeed, this time was full of tranquil, serene happiness. It was like
the lovely weather only to be met with in the spring, and then but
rarely, when the sky is cloudless, and intensely blue,--the sunshine
one glow of clearness without burning,--not a breath of wind checks the
silent growth of the expanding buds of light exquisite green. Such days
as these shone on Guy and Amabel, looking little to the future, or if
they did so at all, with a grave, peaceful awe, reposing in the present,
and resuming old habits,--singing, reading, gardening, walking as of
old, and that intercourse with each other that was so much more than
ever before.
It was more, but it was not quite the same; for Guy was a very
chivalrous lover; the polish and courtesy that sat so well on his frank,
truthful manners, were even more remarkable in his courtship. His
ways with Amy had less of easy familiarity than in the time of their
brother-and-sister-like intimacy, so that a stranger might have imagined
her wooed, not won. It was as if he hardly dared to believe that she
could really be his own, and treated her with a sort of reverential love
and gentleness, while she looked up to him with ever-increasing honour.
She was better able to understand him now than in her more childish days
last summer; and she did not merely see, as before, that she was looking
at the upper surface of a mystery. He had, at the same time, grown in
character, his excitability and over-sensitiveness seemed to have been
smoothed away, and to have given place to a calmness of tone, that was
by no means impassibility.
When alone with Amy, he was generally very grave, often silent and
meditative, or else their talk was deep and serious; and even with the
family he was less merry and more thoughtful than of old, though very
bright and animated, and showing full, free affection to them all, as
entirely accepted and owned as one of them.
So, indeed, he was. Mr. Edmonstone, with his intense delight in lovers,
patronized them, and made commonplace jokes, which they soon learnt
to bear without much discomposure. Mrs. Edmonstone was all that her
constant appellation of ‘mamma’ betokened, delighting in Guy’s having
learnt to call her so. Charles enjoyed the restoration of his friend,
the sight of Amy’s happiness, and the victory over Philip, and was
growing better every day. Charlotte was supremely happy, watching the
first love affair ever conducted in her sight, and little less so in the
return of Bustle, who resumed his old habits as regularly as if he had
only left Hollywell yesterday.
Laura alone was unhappy. She did not understand her own feelings; but
sad at heart she was; with only one who could sympathize with her, and
he far away, and the current of feeling setting against him. She could
not conceal her depression, and was obliged to allow it to be attributed
to the grief that one sister must feel in parting with another; and as
her compassion for her little Amy, coupled with her dread of her latent
jealousy, made her particularly tender and affectionate, it gave even
more probability to the supposition. This made Guy, who felt as if he
was committing a robbery on them all, particularly kind to her, as if
he wished to atone for the injury of taking away her sister; and his
kindness gave her additional pain at entertaining such hard thoughts of
him.
How false she felt when she was pitied! and how she hated the
congratulations, of which she had the full share! She thought, however,
that she should be able to rejoice when she had heard Philip’s opinion;
and how delightful it would be for him to declare himself satisfied with
Guy’s exculpation.