She’s a winsome wee thing,
She’s a handsome wee thing,
She’s a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wifie of mine.
--BURNS
‘Look here, Amy,’ said Guy, pointing to a name in the traveller’s book
at Altdorf.
‘Captain Morville!’ she exclaimed, ‘July 14th. That was only the day
before yesterday.’
‘I wonder whether we shall overtake him! Do you know what was this
gentleman’s route?’ inquired Guy, in French that was daily becoming more
producible.
The gentleman having come on foot, with nothing but his knapsack, had
not made much sensation. There was a vague idea that he had gone on
to the St. Gothard; but the guide who was likely to know, was not
forthcoming, and all Guy’s inquiries only resulted in, ‘I dare say we
shall hear of him elsewhere.’
To tell the truth, Amabel was not much disappointed, and she could see,
though he said nothing, that Guy was not very sorry. These two months
had been so very happy, there had been such full enjoyment, such freedom
from care and vexation, or aught that could for a moment ruffle the
stream of delight. Scenery, cathedrals music, paintings, historical
association, had in turn given unceasing interest and pleasure; and,
above all, Amabel had been growing more and more into the depths of her
husband’s mind, and entering into the grave, noble thoughts inspired by
the scenes they were visiting. It had been a sort of ideal happiness,
so exquisite, that she could hardly believe it real. A taste of society,
which they had at Munich, though very pleasant, had only made them
more glad to be alone together again; any companion would have been an
interruption, and Philip, so intimate, yet with his carping, persecuting
spirit towards Guy, was one of the last persons she could wish to
meet; but knowing that this was by no means a disposition Guy wished to
encourage, she held her peace.
For the present, no more was said about Philip; and they proceeded to
Interlachen, where they spent a day or two, while Arnaud was with his
relations; and they visited the two beautiful lakes of Thun and Brientz.
On first coming among mountains, Amabel had been greatly afraid of
the precipices, and had been very much alarmed at the way in which Guy
clambered about, with a sureness of foot and steadiness of head acquired
long ago on the crags of Redclyffe, and on which the guides were always
complimenting him; but from seeing him always come down safe, and from
having been enticed by him to several heights, which had at first seemed
to her most dizzy and dangerous, she had gradually laid aside her fears,
and even become slightly, very slightly, adventurous herself.
One beautiful evening, they were wandering on the side of the
Beatenberg, in the little narrow paths traced by the tread of the goats
and their herdsmen. Amabel sat down to try to sketch the outline of the
white-capped Jung Frau and her attendant mountains, wishing she could
draw as well as Laura, but intending her outline to aid in describing
the scene to those whose eyes she longed to have with her. While she was
drawing, Guy began to climb higher, and was soon out of sight, though
she still heard him whistling. The mountains were not easy to draw,
or rather she grew discontented with her black lines and white paper,
compared with the dazzling snow against the blue sky, tinged by the
roseate tints of the setting sun, and the dark fissures on the rocky
sides, still blacker from the contrast.
She put up her sketching materials, and began to gather some of the
delightful treasury of mountain flowers. A gentle slope of grass was
close to her, and on it grew, at some little distance from her, a tuft
of deep purple, the beautiful Alpine saxifrage, which she well knew by
description. She went to gather it, but the turf was slippery, and when
once descending, she could not stop herself; and what was the horror of
finding herself half slipping, half running down a slope, which became
steeper every moment, till it was suddenly broken off into a sheer
precipice! She screamed, and grasped with both hands at some low bushes,
that grew under a rock at the side of the treacherous turf. She caught
a branch, and found herself supported, by clinging to it with her hands,
while she rested on the slope, now so nearly perpendicular, that to lose
her hold would send her instantly down the precipice. Her whole weight
seemed to depend on that slender bough, and those little hands that
clenched it convulsively,--her feet felt in vain for some hold. ‘Guy!
Guy!’ she shrieked again. Oh, where was he? His whistle ceased,--he
heard her,--he called,
‘Here!’
‘Oh, help me!’ she answered. But with that moment’s joy came the horror,
he could not help her--he would only fall himself. ‘Take care! don’t
come on the grass!’ she cried. She must let go the branch in a short,
time then a slip, the precipice,--and what would become of him? Those
moments were hours.
‘I am coming--hold fast!’ She heard his voice above her, very near.
To find him so close made the agony of dread and of prayer even more
intense. To be lost, with her husband scarcely a step from her! Yet how
could he stand on the slippery turf, and so as to be steady enough to
raise her up?
‘Now, then!’ he said, speaking from the rock under which the brushwood
grew, ‘I cannot reach you unless you raise up your hand to me--your left
hand--straight up. Let go. Now!’
It was a fearful moment. Amabel could not see him, and felt as if
relinquishing her grasp of the tree was certain destruction. The
instinct of self-preservation had been making her cling desperately with
that left hand, especially as it held by the thicker part of the bough.
But the habit of implicit confidence and obedience was stronger still;
she did not hesitate, and tightening her hold with the other hand, she
unclasped the left and stretched it upwards.
Joy unspeakable to feel his fingers close over her wrist, like iron,
even while the bush to which she had trusted was detaching itself,
almost uprooted by her weight! If she had waited a second she would have
been lost, but her confidence had been her safety. A moment or two more,
and with closed eyes she was leaning against him; his arm was round
her, and he guided her steps, till, breathless, she found herself on the
broad well-trodden path, out of sight of the precipice.
‘Thank heaven!’ he said, in a very low voice, as he stood still. ‘Thank
God! my Amy, I have you still.’
She looked up and saw how pale he was, though his voice had been so
steady throughout. She leant on his breast, and rested her head on
his shoulder again in silence, for her heart was too full of awe and
thankfulness for words, even had she not been without breath or power to
speak, and needing his support in her giddiness and trembling.
More than a minute passed thus. Then, beginning to recover, she looked
up to him again, and said, ‘Oh, it was dreadful! I did not think you
could have saved me.’
‘I thought so too for a moment!’ said Guy, in a stifled voice. ‘You are
better now? You are not hurt? are you sure?’
‘Quite sure! I did not fall, you know, only slipped. No, I have nothing
the matter with me, thank you.’
She tried to stand alone, but the trembling returned. He made her sit
down, and she rested against him, while he still made her assure him
that she was unhurt. ‘Yes, quite unhurt--quite well; only this wrist is
a little strained, and no wonder. Oh, I am sure it was Providence that
made those bushes grow just there!’
‘How did it happen?’
‘It was my fault. I went after a flower; my foot slipped on the turf,
and I could not stop myself. I thought I should have run right down the
precipice.’
She shut her eyes and shuddered again. ‘It was frightful!’ he said,
holding her fast. ‘It was a great mercy, indeed. Thank heaven, it is
over! You are not giddy now.’
‘Oh, no; not at all!’
‘And your wrist?’
‘Oh, that’s nothing. I only told you to show you what was the worst,’
said Amy, smiling with recovered playfulness, the most re-assuring of
all.
‘What flower was it?’
‘A piece of purple saxifrage. I thought there was no danger, for it did
not seem steep at first.’
‘No, it was not your fault. You had better not move just yet; sit still
a little while.’
‘O Guy, where are you going?’
‘Only for your sketching tools and my stick. I shall not be gone an
instant. Sit still and recover.’
In a few seconds he came back with her basket, and in it a few of the
flowers.
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she said, coming to meet him; ‘I wish I had told you I
did not care for them. Why did you?’
‘I did not put myself in any peril about them. I had my trusty staff,
you know.’
‘I am glad I did not guess what you were doing. I thought it so
impossible, that I did not think of begging you not. I shall keep them
always. It is a good thing for us to be put in mind how frail all our
joy is.’
‘All?’ asked Guy, scarcely as if replying to her, while, though his arm
pressed hers, his eye was on the blue sky, as he answered himself, ‘Your
joy no man taketh from you.’
Amabel was much impressed, as she thought what it would have been
for him if his little wife bad been snatched from him so suddenly and
frightfully. His return--his meeting her mother--his desolate home and
solitary life. She could almost have wept for him. Yet, at the moment of
relief from the fear of such misery, he could thus speak. He could look
onward to the joy beyond, even while his cheek was still blanched with
the horror and anguish of the apprehension; and how great they had
been was shown by the broken words he uttered in his sleep, for several
nights afterwards, while by day he was always watching and cautioning
her. Assuredly his dependence on the joy that could not be lost did not
make her doubt his tenderness; it only made her feel how far behind him
she was, for would it have been the same with her, had the danger been
his?
In a couple of days they arrived at the beautiful Lugano, and, as usual,
their first walk was to the post-office, but disappointment awaited
them. There had been some letters addressed to the name of Morville,
but the Signor Inglese had left orders that such should be forwarded to
Como. Amabel, in her best Italian, strove hard to explain the difference
between the captain and Sir Guy, the Cavaliere Guido, as she translated
him, who stood by looking much amused by the perplexities of his lady’s
construing; while the post-master, though very polite and sorry for the
Signora’s disappointment, stuck to the address being Morville, poste
restante.
‘There is one good thing,’ said the cavaliere, as they walked away, ‘we
can find the captain now. I’ll write and ask him--shall I say to meet us
at Varenna or at Bellagio?’
‘Whichever suits him best, I should think. It can’t make much difference
to us.’
‘Your voice has a disconsolate cadence,’ said Guy, looking at her with a
smile.
‘I did not mean it,’ she answered; ‘I have not a word to say against it.
It is quite right, and I am sure I don’t wish to do otherwise.’
‘Only it is the first drawback in our real day-dream.’
‘Just so, and that is all,’ said Amy; ‘I am glad you feel the same, not
that I want you to change your mind.’
‘Don’t you remember our resolution against mere pleasure-hunting? That
adventure at Interlachen seemed to be meant to bring us up short just as
we were getting into that line.’
‘You think we were?’
‘I was, at least; for I know it was a satisfaction not to find a letter,
to say Redclyffe was ready for us.’
‘I had rather it was Redclyffe than Philip.’
‘To be sure, I would not change my own dancing leaping waves for this
clear blue looking-glass of a lake, or even those white peaks. I want
you to make friends with those waves, Amy. But it is a more real matter
to make friends with Philip, the one wish of my life. Not that I exactly
expect to clear matters up, but if some move is not made now, when it
may, we shall stand aloof for life, and there will be the feud where it
was before.’
‘It is quite right,’ said Amy; ‘I dare say that, meeting so far from
home, he will be glad to see us, and to hear the Hollywell news. I
little thought last autumn where I should meet him again.’
On the second evening from that time, Philip Morville was walking, hot
and dusty, between the high stone walls bordering the road, and shutting
out the beautiful view of the lake, at the entrance of Ballagio,
meditating on the note he had received from Guy, and intending to be
magnanimous, and overlook former offences for Amabel’s sake. He would
show that he considered the marriage to have cleared off old scores, and
that as long as she was happy, poor little thing, her husband should
be borne with, though not to the extent of the spoiling the Edmonstones
gave him.
Thus reflecting, he entered the town, and walked on in search of the
hotel. He presently found himself on a terrace, looking out on the
deep blue lake, there divided by the promontory of Bellagio, into two
branches, the magnificent mountain forms rising opposite to him. A
little boat was crossing, and as it neared the landing-place, he saw
that it contained a gentleman and lady, English--probably his cousins
themselves. They looked up, and in another moment had waved their
recognition. Gestures and faces were strangely familiar, like a bit
of Hollywell transplanted into that Italian scene. He hastened to the
landing-place, and was met by a hearty greeting from Guy, who seemed
full of eagerness to claim their closer relationship, and ready to be
congratulated.
‘How d’ye do, Philip? I am glad we have caught you at last. Here she
is.’
If he had wished to annoy Philip, he could hardly have done so more
effectually than by behaving as if nothing was amiss, and disconcerting
his preparations for a reconciliation. But the captain’s ordinary manner
was calculated to cover all such feelings; and as he shook hands, he
felt much kindness for Amabel, as an unconscious victim, whose very
smiles were melancholy, and plenty of them there were, for she rejoiced
sincerely in the meeting, as Guy was pleased, and a home face was a
welcome sight.
‘I have your letters in my knapsack; I will unpack them as soon as we
get to the hotel. I thought it safer not to send them in search of you
again, as we were to meet so soon.’
‘Certainly. Are there many?’
‘One for each of you, both from Hollywell. I was very sorry to have
engrossed them; but not knowing you were so near, I only gave my
surname.’
‘It was lucky for us,’ said Guy, ‘otherwise we could not have traced
you. We saw your name at Altdorf, and have been trying to come up with
you ever since.’
‘I am glad we have met. What accounts have you from home?’
‘Excellent,’ said Amy; ‘Charlie is uncommonly well, he has been out of
doors a great deal, and has even dined out several times.’
‘I am very glad.’
‘You know he has been improving ever since his great illness.’
‘You would be surprised to see how much better he moves,’ said Guy; ‘he
helps himself so much more.’
‘Can he set his foot to the ground?’
‘No,’ said Amy, ‘there is no hope of that; but he is more active,
because his general health is improved; he can sleep and eat more.’
‘I always thought exertion would do more for him than anything else.’
Amabel was vexed, for she thought exertion depended more on health, than
health on exertion; besides, she thought Philip ought to take some blame
to himself for the disaster on the stairs. She made no answer, and Guy
asked what Philip had been doing to-day.
‘Walking over the hills from Como. Do you always travel in this fashion,
“impedimentis relictis”?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Guy; ‘the “impedimenta” are, some at Varenna, some
at the inn with Arnaud.’
‘So you have Arnaud with you?’
‘Yes, and Anne Trower,’ said Amy, for her maid was a Stylehurst person,
who had lived at Hollywell ever since she had been fit for service. ‘She
was greatly pleased to hear we were going to meet the captain.’
‘We amuse ourselves with thinking how she gets on with Arnaud,’ said
Guy. ‘Their introduction took place only two days before we were
married, since which, they have had one continued tete-a-tete, which
must have been droll at first.’
‘More so at last,’ said Amy. ‘At first Anne thought Mr. Arnaud so fine a
gentleman, that she hardly dared to speak to him. I believe nothing
awed her so much as his extreme courtesy; but lately he has been quite
fatherly to her, and took her to dine at his sister’s chalet, where
I would have given something to see her. She tells me he wants her
to admire the country, but she does not like the snow, and misses our
beautiful clover-fields very much.’
‘Stylehurst ought to have been better training for mountains,’ said
Philip.
They were fast losing the stiffness of first meeting. Philip could not
but acknowledge to himself that Amy was looking very well, and so happy
that Guy must be fulfilling the condition on which he was to be borne
with. However, these were early days, and of course Guy must be kind to
her at least in the honeymoon, before the wear and tear of life began.
They both looked so young, that having advised them to wait four years,
he was ready to charge them with youthfulness, if not as a fault, at
least as a folly; indeed, the state of his own affairs made him inclined
to think it a foible, almost a want of patience, in any one to marry
before thirty. It was a conflict of feeling. Guy was so cordial and
good-humoured, that he could not help being almost gained; but, on the
other hand, he had always thought Guy’s manners eminently agreeable; and
as happiness always made people good-humoured, this was no reason for
relying on him. Besides, the present ease and openness of manner might
only result from security.
Other circumstances combined, more than the captain imagined, in what is
popularly called putting him out. He had always been hitherto on equal
terms with Guy; indeed, had rather the superiority at Hollywell, from
his age and assumption of character, but here Sir Guy was somebody, the
captain nobody, and even the advantage of age was lost, now that Guy was
married and head of a family, while Philip was a stray young man and his
guest. Far above such considerations as he thought himself, and
deeming them only the tokens of the mammon worship of the time, Philip,
nevertheless, did not like to be secondary to one to whom he had always
been preferred; and this, and perhaps the being half ashamed of it, made
him something more approaching to cross than ever before; but now and
then, the persevering amiability of both would soften him, and restore
him to his most gracious mood.
He gave them their letters when they reached the inn, feeling as if he
had a better right than they, to one which was in Laura’s writing, and
when left in solitary possession of the sitting-room--a very pleasant
one, with windows opening on the terrace just above the water--paced up
and down, chafing at his own perplexity of feeling.
Presently they came back; Guy sat down to continue their joint
journal-like letter to Charles, while Amabel made an orderly arrangement
of their properties, making the most of their few books, and taking out
her work as if she had been at home. Philip looked at the books.
‘Have you a “Childe Harold” here?’ said he. ‘I want to look at something
in it.’
‘No, we have not.’
‘Guy, you never forget poetry; I dare say you can help me out with those
stanzas about the mists in the valley.’
‘I have never read it,’ said Guy. ‘Don’t you remember warning me against
Byron?’
‘You did not think that was for life! Besides,’ he continued, feeling
this reply inconsistent with his contempt for Guy’s youth, ‘that
applied to his perversions of human passions, not to his descriptions of
scenery.’
‘I think,’ said Guy, looking up from his letter, ‘I should be more
unwilling to take a man like that to interpret nature than anything
else, except Scripture. It is more profane to attempt it.’
‘I see what you mean,’ said Amabel, thoughtfully.
‘More than I do,’ said Philip. ‘I never supposed you would take my
advice “au pied de la lettre”,’ he had almost added, ‘perversely.’
‘I have felt my obligations for that caution ever since I have come to
some knowledge of what Byron was,’ said Guy.
‘The fascination of his “Giaour” heroes has an evil influence on some
minds,’ said Philip. ‘I think you do well to avoid it. The half truth,
resulting from its being the effect of self-contemplation, makes it more
dangerous.’
‘True,’ said Guy, though he little knew how much he owed to having
attended to that caution, for who could have told where the mastery
might have been in the period of fearful conflict with his passions, if
he had been feeding his imagination with the contemplation of revenge,
dark hatred, and malice, and identifying himself with Byron’s brooding
and lowering heroes!
‘But,’ continued Philip, ‘I cannot see why you should shun the fine
descriptions which are almost classical--the Bridge of Sighs, the
Gladiator.’
‘He may describe the gladiator as much as he pleases,’ said Guy; ‘indeed
there is something noble in that indignant line--
Butchered to make a Roman holiday;
but that is not like his meddling with these mountains or the sea.’
‘Fine description is the point in both. You are over-drawing.’
‘My notion is this,’ said Guy,--‘there is danger in listening to a
man who is sure to misunderstand the voice of nature,--danger, lest by
filling our ears with the wrong voice we should close them to the true
one. I should think there was a great chance of being led to stop
short at the material beauty, or worse, to link human passions with the
glories of nature, and so distort, defile, profane them.’
‘You have never read the poem, so you cannot judge,’ said Philip,
thinking this extremely fanciful and ultra-fastidious. ‘Your rule would
exclude all descriptive poetry, unless it was written by angels, I
suppose?’
‘No; by men with minds in the right direction.’
‘Very little you would leave us.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Amabel. ‘Almost all the poetry we really care
about was written by such men.’
‘Shakspeare, for instance?’
‘No one can doubt of the bent of his mind from the whole strain of his
writings,’ said Guy. ‘So again with Spenser; and as to Milton, though
his religion was not quite the right sort, no one can pretend to say he
had it not. Wordsworth, Scott--’
‘Scott?’ said Philip.
‘Including the descriptions of scenery in his novels,’ said Amy, ‘where,
I am sure, there is the spirit and the beauty.’
‘Or rather, the spirit is the beauty,’ said Guy.
‘There is a good deal in what you say,’ answered Philip, who would not
lay himself open to the accusation of being uncandid, ‘but you will
forgive me for thinking it rather too deep an explanation of the grounds
of not making Childe Harold a hand-book for Italy, like other people.’
Amabel thought this so dogged and provoking, that she was out of
patience; but Guy only laughed, and said, ‘Rather so, considering that
the fact was that we never thought of it.’
There were times when, as Philip had once said, good temper annoyed him
more than anything, and perhaps he was unconsciously disappointed at
having lost his old power of fretting and irritating Guy, and watching
him champ the bit, so as to justify his own opinion of him. Every
proceeding of his cousins seemed to give him annoyance, more especially
their being at home together, and Guy’s seeming to belong more to
Hollywell than himself. He sat by, with a book, and watched them, as Guy
asked for Laura’s letter, and Amy came to look over his half-finished
answer, laughing over it, and giving her commands and messages, looking
so full of playfulness and happiness, as she stood with one hand on the
back of her husband’s chair, and the other holding the letter, and Guy
watching her amused face, and answering her remarks with lively words
and bright smiles. ‘People who looked no deeper than the surface would,
say, what a well-matched pair,’ thought Philip; ‘and no doubt they were
very happy, poor young things, if it would but last.’ Here Guy turned,
and asked him a question about the line of perpetual snow, so much in
his own style, that he was almost ready to accuse them of laughing at
him. Next came what hurt him most of all, as they talked over Charles’s
letter, and a few words passed about Laura, and the admiration of some
person she had met at Allonby. The whole world was welcome to admire
her: nothing could injure his hold on her heart, and no joke of Charles
could shake his confidence; but it was hard that he should be forced to
hear such things, and ask no questions, for they evidently thought him
occupied with his book, and did not intend him to listen. The next thing
they said, however, obliged him to show that he was attending, for it
was about her being better.
‘Who? Laura!’ he said, in a tone that, in spite of himself, had a
startled sound. ‘You did not say she had been ill?’
‘No, she has not,’ said Amy. ‘Dr. Mayerne said there was nothing really
the matter: but she has been worried and out of spirits lately; and
mamma thought it would be good for her to go out more.’
Philip would not let himself sigh, in spite of the oppressing
consciousness of having brought the cloud over her, and of his own
inability to do aught but leave her to endure it in silence and
patience. Alas! for how long! Obliged, meanwhile, to see these young
creatures, placed, by the mere factitious circumstance of wealth, in
possession of happiness which they had not had time either to earn or to
appreciate. He thought it shallow, because of their mirth and gaiety, as
if they were only seeking food for laughter, finding it in mistakes, for
which he was ready to despise them.
Arnaud had brought rather antiquated notions to the renewal of his
office as a courier: his mind had hardly opened to railroads and
steamers, and changes had come over hotels since his time. Guy and
Amabel, both young and healthy, caring little about bad dinners, and
unwilling to tease the old man by complaints, or alterations of his
arrangements, had troubled themselves little about the matter; took
things as they found them, ate dry bread when the cookery was bad,
walked if the road was ‘shocking’; went away the sooner, if the inns
were ‘intolerable’; made merry over every inconvenience, and turned
it into an excellent story for Charles. They did not even distress
themselves about sights which they had missed seeing.
Philip thought all this very foolish and absurd, showing that they were
unfit to take care of themselves, and that Guy was neglectful of his
wife’s comforts: in short, establishing his original opinion of their
youth and folly.
So passed the first evening; perhaps the worst because, besides what he
had heard about Laura, he had been somewhat over-fatigued by various hot
days’ walks.
Certain it is, that next morning he was not nearly so much inclined
to be displeased with them for laughing, when, in speaking to Anne, he
inadvertently called her mistress Miss Amabel.
‘Never mind,’ said Amy, as Anne departed--and he looked disconcerted, as
a precise man always does when catching himself in a mistake--‘Anne is
used to it, Guy is always doing it, and puzzles poor Arnaud sorely by
sending him for Miss Amabel’s parasol.’
‘And the other day,’ said Guy, ‘when Thorndale’s brother, at Munich,
inquired after Lady Morville, I had to consider who she was.’
‘Oh! you saw Thorndale’s brother, did you?’
‘Yes; he was very obliging. Guy had to go to him about our passports:
and when he found who we were, he brought his wife to call on us, and
asked us to an evening party.’
‘Did you go?’
‘Guy thought we must, and it was very entertaining. We had a curious
adventure there. In the morning, we had been looking at those
beautiful windows of the great church, when I turned round, and saw a
gentleman--an Englishman--gazing with all his might at Guy. We met again
in the evening, and presently Mr. Thorndale came and told us it was Mr.
Shene.’
‘Shene, the painter?’
‘Yes. He had been very much struck with Guy’s face: it was exactly what
he wanted for a picture he was about, and he wished of all things just
to be allowed to make a sketch.’
‘Did you submit?’
‘Yes’ said Guy; ‘and we were rewarded. I never saw a more agreeable
person, or one who gave so entirely the impression of genius. The next
day he took us through the gallery, and showed us all that was worth
admiring.’
‘And in what character is he to make you appear?’
‘That is the strange part of it,’ said Amabel. ‘Don’t you remember how
Guy once puzzled us by choosing Sir Galahad for his favourite hero? It
is that very Sir Galahad, when he kneels to adore the Saint Greal.’
‘Mr. Shene said he had long been dreaming over it, and at last, as he
saw Guy’s face looking upwards, it struck him that it was just what he
wanted: it would be worth anything to him to catch the expression.’
‘I wonder what I was looking like!’ ejaculated Guy.
‘Did he take you as yourself, or as Sir Galahad?’
‘As myself, happily.’
‘How did he succeed?’
‘Amy likes it; but decidedly I should never have known myself.’
‘Ah,’ said his wife--
‘Could some fay the giftie gie us,
To see ourselves as others see us.’
‘As far as the sun-burnt visage is concerned, the glass does that every
morning.’
‘Yes, but you don’t look at yourself exactly as you do at a painted
window,’ said Amy, in her demure way.
‘I cannot think how you found time for sitting,’ said Philip.
‘O, it is quite a little thing, a mere sketch, done in two evenings and
half an hour in the morning. He promises it to me when he has done with
Sir Galahad,’ said Amy.
‘Two--three evenings. You must have been a long time at Munich.’
‘A fortnight,’ said Guy, ‘there is a great deal to see there.’
Philip did not quite understand this, nor did he think it very
satisfactory that they should thus have lingered in a gay town, but he
meant to make the best of them to-day, and returned to his usual fashion
of patronizing and laying down the law. They were so used to this that
they did not care about it; indeed, they had reckoned on it as the most
amiable conduct to be expected on his part.
The day was chiefly spent in an excursion on the lake, landing at the
most beautiful spots, walking a little way and admiring, or while in the
boat, smoothly moving over the deep blue waters, gaining lovely views of
the banks, and talking over the book with which their acquaintance had
begun, “I Promessi Sposi”. Never did tourists spend a more serene and
pleasant day.
On comparing notes as to their plans, it appeared that each party had
about a week or ten days to spare; the captain before he must embark for
Corfu, and Sir Guy and Lady Morville before the time they had fixed
for returning home. Guy proposed to go together somewhere, spare the
post-office further blunders, and get the Signor Capitano to be their
interpreter. Philip thought it would be an excellent thing for his young
cousins for him to take charge of them, and show them how people ought
to travel; so out came his little pocket map, marked with his route,
before he left Ireland, whereas they seemed to have no fixed object,
but to be always going ‘somewhere.’ It appeared that they had thought of
Venice, but were easily diverted from it by his design of coasting the
eastern bank of the Lago di Como, and so across the Stelvio into the
Tyrol, all together as far as Botzen, whence Philip would turn southward
by the mountain paths, while they would proceed to Innsbruck on their
return home.
Amabel was especially pleased to stay a little longer on the banks of
the lake, and to trace out more of Lucia’s haunts; and if she secretly
thought it would have been pleasanter without a third person, she was
gratified to see how much Guy’s manner had softened Philip’s injustice
and distrust, making everything so smooth and satisfactory, that at the
end of the day, she told her husband that she thought his experiment had
not failed.
She was making the breakfast the next morning, when the captain came
into the room, and she told him Guy was gone to settle their plans with
Arnaud. After lingering a little by the window, Philip turned, and with
more abruptness than was usual with him, said--
‘You don’t think there is any cause of anxiety about Laura?’
‘No; certainly not!’ said Amy, surprised. ‘She has not been looking well
lately, but Dr. Mayerne says it is nothing, and you know’--she blushed
and looked down--‘there were many things to make this a trying time.’
‘Is she quite strong? Can she do as much as usual?’
‘She does more than ever: mamma is only afraid of her overworking
herself, but she never allows that she is tired. She goes to school
three days in the week, besides walking to East-hill on Thursday, to
help in the singing; and she is getting dreadfully learned. Guy gave her
his old mathematical books, and Charlie always calls her Miss Parabola.’
Philip was silent, knowing too well why she sought to stifle care in
employment; and feeling embittered against the whole world, against her
father, against his own circumstances, against the happiness of others;
nay, perhaps, against the Providence which had made him what he was.
Presently Guy came in, and the first thing he said was, ‘I am afraid we
must give up our plan.’
‘How?’ exclaimed both Philip and Amy.
‘I have just heard that there is a fever at Sondrio, and all that
neighbourhood, and every one says it would be very foolish to expose
ourselves to it.’
‘What shall we do instead?’ said Amy.
‘I told Arnaud we would let him know in an hour’s time; I thought of
Venice.’
‘Venice, oh, yes, delightful.’
‘What do you say, Philip?’ said Guy.
‘I say that I cannot see any occasion for our being frightened out of
our original determination. If a fever prevails among the half-starved
peasantry, it need not affect well-fed healthy persons, merely passing
through the country.’
‘You see we could hardly manage without sleeping there,’ said Guy: ‘we
must sleep either at Colico, or at Madonna. Now Colico, they say, is a
most unhealthy place at this time of year, and Madonna is the very
heart of the fever--Sondrio not much better. I don’t see how it is to
be safely done; and though very likely we might not catch the fever, I
don’t see any use in trying.’
‘That is making yourself a slave to the fear of infection.’
‘I don’t know what purpose would be answered by running the risk,’ said
Guy.
‘If you chose to give it so dignified a name as a risk,’ said Philip.
‘I don’t, then,’ said Guy, smiling. ‘I should not care if there was
any reason for going there, but, as there is not, I shall face Mr.
Edmonstone better if I don’t run Amy into any more chances of mischief.’
‘Is Amy grateful for the care,’ said Philip, ‘after all her wishes for
the eastern bank?’
‘Amy is a good wife,’ said Guy. ‘For Venice, then. I’ll ring for Arnaud.
You will come with us, won’t you, Philip?’
‘No, I thank you; I always intended to see the Valtelline, and an
epidemic among the peasantry does not seem to me to be sufficient to
deter.’
‘O Philip, you surely will not?’ said Amy.
‘My mind is made up, Amy, thank you.’
‘I wish you would be persuaded,’ said Guy. ‘I should like particularly
to have you to lionize us there; and I don’t fancy your running into
danger.’
The argument lasted long. Philip by no means approved of Venice,
especially after the long loitering at Munich, thinking that in both
places there was danger of Guy’s being led into mischief by his musical
connections. Therefore he did his best, for Amabel’s sake, to turn them
from their purpose, persuaded in his own mind that the fever was a
mere bugbear, raised up by Arnaud; and, perhaps, in his full health
and strength, almost regarding illness itself as a foible, far more
the dread of it. He argued, therefore, in his most provoking strain,
becoming more vexatious as the former annoyance was revived at
finding the impossibility of making Guy swerve from his purpose, while
additional mists of suspicion arose before him, making him imagine that
the whole objection was caused by Guy’s dislike to submit to him, and
a fit of impatience of which Amy was the victim; nay, that his cousin
wanted to escape from his surveillance, and follow the beat of his
inclinations; and the whole heap of prejudices and half-refuted
accusations resumed their full ascendancy. Never had his manner been
more vexatious, though without departing from the coolness which always
characterized it; but all the time, Guy, while firm and unmoved in
purpose, kept his temper perfectly, and apparently without effort. Even
Amabel glowed with indignation, at the assumption with which he was
striving to put her husband down, though she rejoiced to see its entire
failure: for some sensible argument, or some gay, lively, good-humoured
reply, was the utmost he could elicit. Guy did not seem to be in the
least irritated or ruffled by the very behaviour which used to cause him
so many struggles. Having once seriously said that he did not think it
right to run into danger, without adequate cause, he held his position
with so much ease, that he could afford to be playful, and laugh at his
own dread of infection, his changeableness, and credulity. Never had
temper been more entirely subdued; for surely if he could bear this, he
need never fear himself again.
So passed the hour; and Amabel was heartily glad when the debate was
closed by Arnaud’s coming for orders. Guy went with him; Amabel began to
collect her goods; and Philip, after a few moments’ reflection, spoke in
the half-compassionate, half-patronizing manner with which he used, now
and then, to let fall a few crumbs of counsel or commendation for silly
little Amy.
‘Well, Amy, you yielded very amiably, and that is the only way. You will
always find it best to submit.’
He got no further in his intended warning against the dissipations of
Venice, for her eyes were fixed on him at first with a look of extreme
wonder. Then her face assumed an expression of dignity, and gently, but
gravely, she said, ‘I think you forget to whom you are speaking.’
The gentlemanlike instinct made him reply, ‘I beg your pardon’--and
there he stopped, as much taken by surprise as if a dove had flown in
his face. He actually was confused; for in very truth, he had, after a
fashion, forgotten that she was Lady Morville, not the cousin Amy with
whom Guy’s character might be freely discussed. He had often presumed as
far with his aunt; but she, though always turning the conversation, had
never given him a rebuff. Amabel had not done; and in her soft voice,
firmly, though not angrily, she spoke on. ‘One thing I wish to say,
because we shall never speak on this subject again, and I was always
afraid of you before. You have always misunderstood him, I might almost
say, chosen to misunderstand him. You have tried his temper more than
any one, and never appreciated the struggles that have subdued it. It
is not because I am his wife that I say this--indeed I am not sure it
becomes me to say it; yet I cannot bear that you should not be told of
it, because you think he acts out of enmity to you. You little know
how your friendship has been his first desire--how he has striven for
it--how, after all you have done and written, he defended you with
all his might when those at home were angry--how he sought you out on
purpose to try to be real cordial friends’
Philip’s face had grown rigid, and chiefly at the words, ‘those at home
were angry.’ ‘It is not I that prevent that friendship,’ said he: ‘it is
his own want of openness. My opinion has never changed.’
‘No; I know it has never changed’ said Amy, in a tone of sorrowful
displeasure. ‘Whenever it does, you will be sorry you have judged him so
harshly.’
She left the room, and Philip held her in higher esteem. He saw there
was spirit and substance beneath that soft girlish exterior, and hoped
she would better be able to endure the troubles which her precipitate
marriage was likely to cause her; but as to her husband, his
combined fickleness and obstinacy had only become more apparent than
ever--fickleness in forsaking his purpose, obstinacy in adherence to his
own will.
Displeased and contemptuous, Philip was not softened by Guy’s freedom
and openness of manner and desire to help him as far as their roads lay
together. He was gracious only to Lady Morville, whom he treated with
kindness, intended to show that he was pleased with her for a reproof
which became her position well, though it could not hurt him. Perhaps
she thought this amiability especially insufferable: for when she
arrived at Varenna her chief thought was that here they should be free
of him.
‘Come, Philip,’ said Guy, at that last moment, ‘I wish you would think
better of it after all, and come with us to Milan.’
‘Thank you, my mind is made up.’
‘Well, mind you don’t catch the fever: for I don’t want the trouble of
nursing you.’
‘Thank you; I hope to require no such services of my friends,’ said
Philip, with a proud stem air, implying, ‘I don’t want you.’
‘Good-bye, then,’ said Guy. Then remembering his promise to Laura, he
added, ‘I wish we could have seen more of you. They will be glad to hear
of you at Hollywell. You have had one warm friend there all along.’
He was touched for a moment by this kind speech, and his tone was less
grave and dignified. ‘Remember me to them when you write,’ he answered,
‘and tell Laura she must not wear herself out with her studies.
Good-bye, Amy, I hope you will have a pleasant journey.’
The farewells were exchanged and the carriage drove off. ‘Poor little
Amy!’ said Philip to himself, ‘how she is improved. He has a sweet
little wife in her. The fates have conspired to crown him with all man
can desire, and little marvel if he should abuse his advantages. Poor
little Amy! I have less hope than ever, since even her evident wishes
could not bend his determination in this trifle; but she is a good
little creature, happy in her blindness. May it long continue! It is my
uncle and aunt who are to be blamed.’
He set himself to ascend the mountain path, and they looked back,
watching the firm vigorous steps with which he climbed the hill side,
then stood to wave his hand to Amabel looking a perfect specimen of
health and activity.
‘Just like himself,’ said Amy, drawing so long a breath that Guy smiled,
but did not speak.
‘Are you much vexed?’ said she.
‘I don’t feel as if I had made the most of my opportunities.’
‘Then if you have not, I can tell you who has. What do you think of his
beginning to give me a lecture how to behave to you?’
‘Did he think you wanted it very much?’
‘I don’t know: for of course I could not let him go on.’
Guy was so much diverted at the idea of her wanting a lecture
on wife-like deportment, that he had no time to be angry at the
impertinence, and he made her laugh also by his view that was all force
of habit.
‘Now, Guido--good Cavaliere Guido--do grant me one satisfaction,’ said
she, coaxingly. ‘Only say you are very glad he is gone his own way.’
On the contrary, I am sorry he is running his head into a fever,’ said
Guy, pretending to be provoking.
‘I don’t want you to be glad of that, I only want you to be glad he is
not sitting here towering over us.’ Guy smiled, and began to whistle--
‘Cock up your beaver, and cock it fu’ sprush!’