The matron who alone has stood
When not a prop seemed left below,
The first lorn hour of widowhood,
Yet, cheered and cheering all the while,
With sad but unaffected, smile.
--CHRISTIAN YEAR
The four months’ wife was a widow before she was twenty-one, and
there she sat in her loneliness, her maid weeping, seeking in vain for
something to say that might comfort her, and struck with fear at seeing
her thus composed. It might be said that she had not yet realized her
situation, but the truth was, perhaps, that she was in the midst of the
true realities. She felt that her Guy was perfectly happy--happy beyond
thought or comparison--and she was so accustomed to rejoice with him,
that her mind had not yet opened to understand that his joy left her
mourning and desolate.
Thus she remained motionless for some minutes, till she was startled by
a sound of weeping--those fearful overpowering sobs, so terrible in a
strong man forced to give way.
‘Philip!’ thought she; and withal Guy’s words returned--‘It will be
worse for him than for you. Take care of him.’
‘I must go to him,’ said she at once.
She took up a purple prayer-book that she had unconsciously brought
in her hand from Guy’s bed, and walked down-stairs, without pausing to
think what she should say or do, or remembering how she would naturally
have shrunk from the sight of violent grief.
Philip had retired to his own room the night before, overwhelmed by
the first full view of the extent of the injuries he had inflicted, the
first perception that pride and malevolence had been the true source of
his prejudice and misconceptions, and for the first time conscious of
the long-fostered conceit that had been his bane from boyhood. All had
flashed on him with the discovery of the true purpose of the demand
which he thought had justified his persecution. He saw the glory
of Guy’s character and the part he had acted,--the scales of
self-admiration fell from his eyes, and he knew both himself and his
cousin.
His sole comfort was in hope for the future, and in devising how his
brotherly affection should for the rest of his life testify his altered
mind, and atone for past ill-will. This alone kept him from being
completely crushed,--for he by no means imagined how near the end was,
and the physician, willing to spare himself pain, left him in hopes,
though knowing how it would be. He slept but little, and was very
languid in the morning; but he rose as soon as Arnaud came to him, in
order not to occupy Arnaud’s time, as well as to be ready in case Guy
should send for him again, auguring well from hearing that there was
nothing stirring above, hoping this was a sign that Guy was asleep. So
hoped the two servants for a long time, but at length, growing alarmed,
after many consultations, they resolved to knock at the door, and learn
what was the state of things.
Philip likewise was full of anxiety, and coming to his room door to
listen for intelligence, it was the “e morto” of the passing Italians
that first revealed to him the truth. Guy dead, Amy widowed, himself
the cause--he who had said he would never be answerable for the death of
this young man.
Truly had Guy’s threat, that he would make him repent, been fulfilled.
He tottered back to his couch, and sank down, in a burst of anguish
that swept away all the self-control that had once been his pride. There
Amabel found him stretched, face downwards, quivering and convulsed by
frightful sobs.
‘Don’t--don’t, Philip,’ said she, in her gentle voice. ‘Don’t cry so
terribly!’
Without looking up, he made a gesture with his hand, as if to drive her
away. ‘Don’t come here to reproach me!’ he muttered.
‘No, no; don’t speak so. I want you to hear me; I have something for
you from him. If you would only listen, I want to tell you how happy and
comfortable it was.’ She took a chair and sat down by him, relieved on
perceiving that the sobs grew a little less violent.
‘It was very peaceful, very happy,’ repeated she. ‘We ought to be very
glad.’
He turned round, and glanced at her for a moment; but he could not bear
to see her quiet face. ‘You don’t know what you say,’ he gasped. ‘No;
take care of yourself, don’t trouble yourself for such as me!’
‘I must; he desired me,’ said Amabel. ‘You will be happier, indeed,
Philip, if you would only think what glory it is, and that he is all
safe, and has won the victory, and will have no more of those hard,
hard struggles, and bitter repentance. It has been such a night, that it
seems wrong to be sorry.’
‘Did you say he spoke of me again?’
‘Yes; here is his Prayer-book. Your father gave it to him, and he meant
to have told you about it himself, only he could not talk yesterday
evening, and could not part with it till--’
Amy broke off by opening the worn purple cover, and showing the name, in
the Archdeacon’s writing. ‘He’s very fond of it,’ she said; ‘it is the
one he always uses.’ (Alas! she had not learnt to speak of him in the
past tense.)
Philip held out his hand, but the agony of grief returned the next
moment. ‘My father, my father! He would have done him justice. If he had
lived, this would never have been!’
‘That is over, you do him justice now,’ said Amy. ‘You did, indeed you
did, make him quite happy. He said so, again and again. I never saw him
so happy as when you began to get better. I don’t think any one ever had
so much happiness and it never ceased, it was all quiet, and peace, and
joy, till it brightened quite into perfect day--and the angel’s song!
Don’t you remember yesterday, how clear and sweet his voice came out in
that? and it was the last thing almost he said. I believe’--she lowered
her voice--‘I believe he finished it among them.’
The earnest placid voice, speaking thus, in calmness and simplicity,
could not fail in soothing him; but he was so shaken and exhausted,
that she had great difficulty in restoring him. After a time, he lay
perfectly still on the sofa, and she was sitting by, relieved by the
tranquillity, when there was a knock at the door, and Arnaud came in,
and stood hesitating, as if he hardly knew how to begin. The present
fear of agitating her charge helped her now, when obliged to turn her
thoughts to the subjects on which she knew Arnaud was come. She went to
the door, and spoke low, hoping her cousin might not hear or understand.
‘How soon must it be?’
‘My lady, to-morrow,’ said Arnaud, looking down. ‘They say that so it
must be; and the priest consents to have it in the churchyard here. The
brother of the clergyman is here, and would know if your ladyship would
wish--’
‘I will speak to him,’ said Amabel, reluctant to send such messages
through servants.
‘Let me,’ said Philip, who understood what was going on, and was of
course impelled to spare her as much as possible.
‘Thank you’ said she, ‘if you are able!’
‘Oh, yes; I’ll go at once!’
‘Stop,’ said she, as he was setting forth; ‘you don’t know what you are
going to say.’
He put his hand to his head in confusion.
‘He wished to be buried here,’ said Amabel, ‘and--’
But this renewal of the assurance of the death was too much; and
covering his face with his hands, he sank back in another paroxysm of
violent sobs. Amabel could not leave him.
‘Ask Mr. Morris to be so good as to wait, and I will come directly,’
said she, then returned to her task of comfort till she again saw Philip
lying, with suspended faculties, in the repose of complete exhaustion.
She then went to Mr. Morris, with a look and tone of composure
that almost startled him, thanking him for his assistance in the
arrangements. The funeral was to be at sunrise the next day, before the
villagers began to keep the feast of St. Michael, and the rest was to
be settled by Arnaud and Mr. Morris. He then said, somewhat reluctantly,
that his brother had desired to know whether Lady Morville wished to see
him to-day, and begged to be sent for; but Amy plainly perceived that
he thought it very undesirable for his brother to have any duties to
perform to-day. She questioned herself whether she might not ask him to
read to her, and whether it might be better for Philip; but she thought
she ought not to ask what might injure him merely for her own comfort;
and, besides, Philip was entirely incapable of self-command, and it
would not be acting fairly to expose him to the chance of discovering to
a stranger, feelings that he would ordinarily guard so scrupulously.
She therefore gratefully refused the offer, and Mr. Morris very nearly
thanked her for doing so. He took his leave, and she knew she must
return to her post; but first she indulged herself with one brief visit
to the room where all her cares and duties had lately centred. A look--a
thought--a prayer. The beauteous expression there fixed was a help, as
it had ever been in life and she went back again cheered and sustained.
Throughout that day she attended on her cousin, whose bodily
indisposition required as much care as his mind needed soothing. She
talked to him, read to him, tried to set him the example of taking food,
took thought for him as if he was the chief sufferer, as if it was the
natural thing for her to do, working in the strength her husband had
left her, and for him who had been his chief object of care. She had no
time to herself, except the few moments that she allowed herself now and
then to spend in gazing at the dear face that was still her comfort
and joy; until, at last, late in the evening, she succeeded in reading
Philip to sleep. Then, as she sat in the dim candle-light, with
everything in silence, a sense of desolation came upon her, and she knew
that she was alone.
At that moment a carriage thundered at the door, and she remembered for
the first time that she was expecting her father and mother. She softly
left the room and closed the door; and finding Anne in the nest room,
sent her down.
‘Meet mamma, Anne,’ said she; ‘tell her I am quite well. Bring them
here.’
They entered; and there stood Amabel, her face a little flushed, just
like, only calmer, the daughter they had parted with on her bridal day,
four months ago. She held up her hand as a sign of silence, and said,--
‘Hush! don’t wake Philip.’
Mr. Edmonstone was almost angry, and actually began an impatient
exclamation, but broke it off with a sob, caught her in his arms, kissed
her, and then buried his face in his handkerchief. Mrs. Edmonstone,
still aghast at the tidings they had met at Vicenza, and alarmed at
her unnatural composure, embraced her; held her for some moments, then
looked anxiously to see her weep. But there was not a tear, and her
voice was itself, though low and weak, as, while her father began pacing
up and down, she repeated,--
‘Pray don’t, papa; Philip has been so ill all day.’
‘Philip--pshaw!’ said Mr. Edmonstone, hastily. ‘How are you, yourself,
my poor darling?’
‘Quite well, thank you,’ said Amy. ‘There is a room ready for you.’
Mrs. Edmonstone was extremely alarmed, sure that this was a grief too
deep for outward tokens, and had no peace till she had made Amabel
consent to come up with her, and go at once to bed. To this she agreed,
after she had rung for Arnaud, and stood with him in the corridor, to
desire him to go at once to Captain Morville, as softly as he could, and
when he waked, to say Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone were come, but she thought
he had better not see them to-night; to tell him from her that she
wished him good night, and hoped he would, sleep quietly. ‘And, Arnaud,
take care you do not let him know the hour tomorrow. Perhaps, as he is
so tired, he may sleep till afterwards.’
Mrs. Edmonstone was very impatient of this colloquy, and glad when
Amabel ended it, and led the way up-stairs. She entered her little room,
then quietly opened another door, and Mrs. Edmonstone found herself
standing by the bed, where that which was mortal lay, with its face
bright with the impress of immortality.
The shock was great, for he was indeed as a son to her; but her fears
for Amabel would not leave room for any other thought.
‘Is not he beautiful?’ said Amy, with a smile like his own.
‘My dear, my dear, you ought not to be here,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone,
trying to lead her away.
‘If you would let me say my prayers here!’ said she, submissively.
‘I think not. I don’t know how to refuse, if it would be a comfort,’
said Mrs. Edmonstone, much distressed, ‘but I can’t think it right.
The danger is greater after. And surely, my poor dear child, you have a
reason for not risking yourself!’
‘Go, mamma, I ought not to have brought you here; I forgot about
infection,’ said Amabel, with the tranquillity which her mother had
hoped to shake by her allusion. ‘I am coming.’
She took up Guy’s watch and a book from the table by the bed-side, and
came back to her sleeping-room. She wound up the watch, and then allowed
her mother to undress her, answering all her inquiries about her health
in a gentle, indifferent, matter-of-fact way. She said little of Guy,
but that little was without agitation, and in due time she lay down in
bed. Still, whenever Mrs. Edmonstone looked at her, there was no sleep
in her eyes, and at last she persuaded her to leave her, on the plea
that being watched made her more wakeful, as she did not like to see
mamma sitting up.
Almost as soon as it was light, Mrs. Edmonstone returned, and was
positively frightened, for there stood Amabel, dressed in her white
muslin, her white bonnet, and her deep lace wedding-veil. All her glossy
hair was hidden away, and her face was placid as ever, though there was
a red spot on each cheek. She saw her mother’s alarm, and reassured her
by speaking calmly.
‘You know I have nothing else but colours; I should like to wear this,
if you will let me.’
‘But, dearest, you must not--cannot go.’
‘It is very near. We often walked there together. I would not if I
thought it would hurt me, but I wish it very much indeed. At home by
Michaelmas!’
Mrs. Edmonstone yielded, though her mind misgave her, comforted by
hoping for the much-desired tears. But Amabel, who used to cry so easily
for a trifle, had now not a tear. Her grief was as yet too deep, or
perhaps more truly sorrow and mourning had not begun while the influence
of her husband’s spirit was about her still.
It was time to set forth, and the small party of mourners met in the
long corridor. Mr. Edmonstone would have given his daughter his arm, but
she said--
‘I beg your pardon, dear papa, I don’t think I can;’ and she walked
alone and firmly.
It was a strange sight that English funeral, so far from England. The
bearers were Italian peasants. There was a sheet thrown over the coffin
instead of a pall, and this, with the white dress of the young widow,
gave the effect of the emblematic whiteness of a child’s funeral; and
the impression was heightened by the floating curling white clouds of
vapour rising in strange shrouded shadowy forms, like spirit mourners,
from the narrow ravines round the grave-yard, and the snowy mountains
shining in the morning light against the sky.
Gliding almost like one of those white wreaths of mist, Amabel walked
alone, tearless and calm, her head bent down, and her long veil falling
round her in full light folds, as when it had caught the purple light
on her wedding-day. Her parents were close behind, weeping more for the
living than the dead, though Guy had a fast hold of their hearts; and
his own mother could scarce have loved him better than Mrs. Edmonstone
did. Lastly, were Anne and Arnaud, sincere mourners, especially Arnaud,
who had loved and cherished his young master from childhood.
They went to the strangers’ corner of the grave-yard, for, of course
the church did not open to a member of another communion of the visible
church; but around them were the hills in which he had read many a
meaning, and which had echoed a response to his last chant with the
promise of the blessing of peace.
The blessing of peace came in the precious English burial-service, as
they laid him to rest in the earth, beneath the spreading chestnut-tree,
rendered a home by those words of his Mother Church--the mother who had
guided each of his steps in his orphaned life. It was a distant grave,
far from his home and kindred, but in a hallowed spot, and a most fair
one; and there might his mortal frame meetly rest till the day when he
should rise, while from their ancestral tombs should likewise awaken the
forefathers whose sins were indeed visited on him in his early death;
but, thanks to Him who giveth the victory, in death without the sting.
Amabel, in obedience to a sign from her mother, sat on a root of the
tree while the Lesson was read, and afterwards she moved forward and
stood at the edge of the grave, her hands tightly clasped, and her
head somewhat raised, as if her spirit was following her husband to his
repose above, rather than to his earthly resting-place.
The service was ended, and she was taking a last long gaze, while her
mother, in the utmost anxiety, was striving to make up her mind to draw
her away, when suddenly a tall gaunt figure was among them--his
face ghastly pale, and full of despair and bewilderment--his step
uncertain--his dress disordered.
Amabel turned, went up to him, laid her hand on his arm, and said,
softly, and quietly looking up in his face, ‘It is over now, Philip; you
had better come home.’
Not attempting to withstand her, he obeyed as if it was his only
instinct. It was like some vision of a guiding, succouring spirit, as
she moved on, slowly gliding in her white draperies. Mrs. Edmonstone
watched her in unspeakable awe and amazement, almost overpowering her
anxieties. It seemed as impossible that the one should be Amy as that
the other should be Philip, her gentle little clinging daughter, or her
proud, imperturbable, self-reliant nephew.
But it was Amy’s own face, when they entered the corridor and she turned
back her veil, showing her flushed and heated cheeks, at the same time
opening Philip’s door and saying, ‘Now you must rest, for you ought not
to have come out. Lie down, and let mamma read to you.’
Mrs. Edmonstone was reluctant, but Amy looked up earnestly and said,
‘Yes, dear mamma, I should like to be alone a little while.’
She then conducted her father to the sitting-room up-stairs.
‘I will give you the papers,’ she said; and leaving him, returned
immediately.
‘This is his will,’ she said. ‘You will tell me if there is anything
I must do at once. Here is a letter to Mr. Markham, and another to Mr.
Dixon, if you will be so kind as to write and enclose them. Thank you,
dear papa.’
She drew a blotting-book towards him, saw that there was ink and pen,
and left him too much appalled at her ways to say anything.
His task was less hard than the one she had set her mother. Strong
excitement had carried Philip to the grave-yard as soon as he learnt
what was passing. He could hardly return even with Arnaud’s support, and
he had only just reached the sofa before he fell into a fainting-fit.
It was long before he gave any sign of returning life, and when
he opened his eyes and saw Mrs. Edmonstone, he closed them almost
immediately, as if unable to meet her look. It was easier to treat him
in his swoon than afterwards. She knew nothing of his repentance and
confession; she only knew he had abused her confidence, led Laura to
act insincerely, and been the cause of Guy’s death. She did not know
how bitterly he accused himself, and though she could not but see he was
miserable, she could by no means fathom his wretchedness, nor guess that
her very presence made him conscious how far he was fallen. He was so
ill that she could not manifest her displeasure, nor show anything
but solicitude for his relief; but her kindness was entirely to his
condition, not to himself; and perceiving this, while he thought his
confession had been received, greatly aggravated his distress, though he
owned within himself that he well deserved it.
She found that he was in no state for being read to; he was completely
exhausted, and suffering from violent headache. So when she could
conscientiously say that to be left quiet was the best thing for him,
she went to her daughter.
Amabel was lying on her bed, her Bible open by her; not exactly reading,
but as if she was now and then finding a verse and dwelling on it.
Gentle and serene she looked; but would she never weep? would those
quiet blue eyes be always sleepless and tearless?
She asked anxiously for Philip, and throughout the day he seemed to
be her care. She did not try to get up and go to him, but she was
continually begging her mother to see about him. It was a harassing day
for poor Mrs. Edmonstone. She would have been glad to have sat by Amabel
all the time, writing to Charles, or hearing her talk. Amy had much
to say, for she wished to make her mother share the perfect peace and
thankfulness that had been breathed upon her during those last hours
with her husband, and she liked to tell the circumstances of his illness
and his precious sayings, to one who would treasure them almost like
herself. She spoke with her face turned away, so as not to see her
mother’s tears, but her mild voice unwavering, as if secure in the
happiness of these recollections. This was the only comfort of Mrs.
Edmonstone’s day, but when she heard her husband’s boots creaking in the
corridor, it was a sure sign that he was in some perplexity, and that
she must go and help him to write a letter, or make some arrangement.
Philip, too, needed attention; but excellent nurse as Mrs. Edmonstone
was, she only made him worse. The more he felt she was his kind aunt
still, the more he saw how he had wounded her, and that her pardon
was an effort. The fond, spontaneous, unreserved affection--almost
petting--which he had well-nigh dared to contemn, was gone; her manner
was only that of a considerate nurse. Much as he longed for a word
of Laura, he did not dare to lead to it,--indeed, he was so far from
speaking to her of any subject which touched him, that he did not
presume even to inquire for Amabel, he only heard of her through Arnaud.
At night sheer exhaustion worked its own cure; he slept soundly, and
awoke in the morning revived. He heard from Arnaud that Lady Morville
was pretty well, but had not slept; and presently Mrs. Edmonstone came
in and took pains to make him comfortable, but with an involuntary
dryness of manner. She told him his uncle would come to see him as soon
as he was up, if he felt equal to talking over some business. Philip’s
brain reeled with dismay and consternation, for it flashed on him that
he was heir of Redclyffe. He must profit by the death he had caused; he
had slain, and he must take possession of the lands which, with loathing
and horror, he remembered that he had almost coveted. Nothing more
was wanting. There was little consolation in remembering that the
inheritance would clear away all difficulties in the way of his
marriage. He had sinned; wealth did not alter his fault, and his spirit
could not brook that if spurned in poverty, he should be received for
his riches. He honoured his aunt for being cold and reserved, and could
not bear the idea of seeing his uncle ready to meet him half-way.
After the first shock he became anxious to have the meeting over, know
the worst, and hear on what ground he stood with Laura. As soon as he
was dressed, he sent a message to announce that he was ready, and lay
on the sofa awaiting his uncle’s arrival, as patiently as he could. Mr.
Edmonstone, meantime, was screwing up his courage--not that he meant to
say a word of Laura,--Philip was too unwell to be told his opinion of
him, but now he had ceased to rely on his nephew, he began to dread
him and his overbearing ways; and besides he had a perfect horror of
witnessing agitation.
At last he came, and Philip rose to meet him with a feeling of shame and
inferiority most new to him.
‘Don’t, don’t, I beg,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, with what was meant for
dignity. ‘Lie still; you had much better. My stars! how ill you look!’
he exclaimed, startled by Philip’s altered face and figure. ‘You have
had a sharpish touch; but you are better, eh?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Well; I thought I had better come and speak to you, if you felt up to
it. Here is--here is--I hope it is all right and legal; but that you
can tell better than I; and you are concerned in it anyhow. Here is poor
Guy’s will, which we thought you had better look over, if you liked, and
felt equal, eh?’
‘Thank you,’ said Philip, holding out his hand; but Mr. Edmonstone
withheld it, trying his patience by an endless quantity of discursive
half-sentences, apparently without connection with each other, about
disappointment, and hopes, and being sorry, and prospects, and its
‘being an unpleasant thing,’ and ‘best not raise his expectations:’
during all which time Philip, expecting to hear of Laura, and his heart
beating so fast as to renew the sensation of faintness, waited in vain,
and strove to gather the meaning, and find out whether he was forgiven,
almost doubting whether the confusion was in his own mind or in
his uncle’s words. However, at last the meaning bolted out in one
comprehensive sentence, when Mr. Edmonstone thought he had sufficiently
prepared him for his disappointment,--‘Poor Amy is to be confined in the
spring.’
There Mr. Edmonstone stopped short, very much afraid of the effect;
but Philip raised himself, his face brightened, as if he was greatly
relieved, and from his heart he exclaimed, ‘Thank Heaven!’
‘That’s right! that is very well said!’ answered Mr. Edmonstone, very
much pleased. ‘It would be a pity it should go out of the old line after
all; and it’s a very generous thing in you to say so.’
‘Oh no!’ said Philip, shrinking into himself at even such praise as
this.
‘Well, well,’ said his uncle, ‘you will see he has thought of you, be it
how it may. There! I only hope it is right; though it does seem rather
queer, appointing poor little Amy executor rather than me. If I had but
been here in time! But ‘twas Heaven’s will; and so--It does not signify,
after all, if it is not quite formal. We understand each other.’
The will was on a sheet of letter-paper, in Arnaud’s stiff French
handwriting; it was witnessed by the two Mr. Morrises, and signed on
the 27th of September, in very frail and feeble characters. Amabel and
Markham were the executors, and Amabel was to be sole guardian, in case
of the birth of a child. If it was a son, £1O,OOO was left to Philip
himself; if not, he was to have all the plate, furniture, &c., of
Redclyffe, with the exception of whatever Lady Morville might choose for
herself.
Philip scarcely regarded the legacy (though it smoothed away his chief
difficulties) as more than another of those ill-requited benefits
which were weighing him to the earth. He read on to a sentence which
reproached him so acutely, that he would willingly have hidden from it,
as he had done from Guy’s countenance. It was the bequest of £5000 to
Elizabeth Wellwood. Sebastian Dixon’s debts were to be paid off; £1000
was left to Marianne Dixon, and the rest of the personal property was to
be Amabel’s.
He gave back the paper, with only the words ‘Thank you.’ He did not feel
as if it was for him to speak; and Mr. Edmonstone hesitated, made an
attempt at congratulating him, broke down, and asked if it was properly
drawn up. He glanced at the beginning and end, said it was quite
correct, and laid his head down, as if the examination had been a great
deal of trouble.
‘And what do you think of Amy’s being under age?’ fidgeted on Mr.
Edmonstone. ‘How is she to act, poor dear! Shall I act for her?’
‘She will soon be of age,’ said Philip, wearily.
‘In January, poor darling. Who would have thought how it would have been
with her? I little thought, last May--but, holloa! what have I been
at?’ cried he, jumping up in a great fright, as Philip, so weak as to be
overcome by the least agitation, changed countenance, covered his face
with his hands, and turned away with a suppressed sob. ‘I didn’t mean
it, I am sure! Here! mamma!’
‘No, no,’ said Philip, recovering, and sitting up; ‘don’t call her, I
beg. There is nothing the matter.’
Mr. Edmonstone obeyed, but he was too much afraid of causing a renewal
of agitation to continue the conversation; and after walking about the
room a little while, and shaking it more than Philip could well bear, he
went away to write his letters.
In the meantime, Amabel had been spending her morning in the same quiet
way as the former day. She wrote part of a letter to Laura, and walked
to the graveyard, rather against her mother’s wish; but she was so good
and obedient, it was impossible to thwart her, though Mrs. Edmonstone
was surprised at her proposal to join her father and Philip at tea. ‘Do
you like it, my dear?’
‘He told me to take care of him,’ said Amabel.
‘I cannot feel that he deserves you should worry yourself about him,’
said Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘If you knew all--’
‘I do know all, mamma,--if you mean about Laura. Surely you must
forgive. Think how he repents. What, have you not had his letter? Then
how did you know?’
‘I learned it from Laura herself. Her trouble at his illness revealed
it. Do you say he has written?’
‘Yes, mamma; he told Guy all about it, and was very sorry, and wrote
as soon as he was able. Guy sent you a long message. He was so anxious
about it.’
Amabel showed more eagerness to understand the state of the case, than
she had about anything else. She urged that Philip should be spoken to,
as soon as possible, saying the suspense must be grievous, and dwelling
on his repentance. Mrs. Edmonstone promised to speak to papa, and
this satisfied her; but she held her resolution of meeting Philip
that evening, looking on him as a charge left her by her husband, and
conscious that, as she alone understood how deep was his sorrow, she
could make the time spent with her parents less embarrassing.
Her presence always soothed him, and regard for her kept her father
quiet; so that the evening passed off very well. Mrs. Edmonstone waited
on both; and, in Amy’s presence, was better able to resume her usual
manner towards her nephew, and he sat wondering at the placidity of
Amy’s pale face. Her hair was smoothed back, and she wore a cap,--the
loss of her long shady curls helping to mark the change from the bright
days of her girlhood; but the mournfulness of her countenance did
not mar the purity and serenity that had always been its great
characteristic; and in the faint sweet smile with which she received
a kind word or attention, there was a likeness to that peculiar and
beautiful expression of her husband’s, so as, in spite of the great
difference of feature and colouring, to give her a resemblance to him.
All this day had been spent by Mr. Edmonstone in a fret to get away from
Recoara, and his wife was hardly less desirous to leave it than himself,
for she could have no peace or comfort about Amabel, till she had her
safely at home. Still she dreaded proposing the departure, and even more
the departure itself; and, in spite of Mr. Edmonstone’s impatience, she
let her alone till she had her mourning; but when, after two days of
hard work, Anne had nearly managed to complete it, she made up her mind
to tell her daughter that they ought to set out.
Amabel replied by mentioning Philip. She deemed him a sort of trust, and
had been reposing in the thought of making him a reason for lingering in
the scene where the brightness of her life had departed from her. Mrs.
Edmonstone would not allow that she ought to remain for his sake, and
told her it was her duty to resolve to leave the place. She said, ‘Yes,
but for him;’ and it ended in Mrs. Edmonstone going, without telling
her, to inform him that she thought Amy ought to be at home as soon
as possible; but that it was difficult to prevail on her, because
she thought him as yet not well enough to be left. He was, of course,
shocked at being thus considered, and as soon as he next saw Amabel,
told her, with great earnestness, that he could not bear to see her
remaining there on his account; that he was almost well, and meant to
leave Recoara very soon; the journey was very easy, the sea voyage
would be the best thing for him, and he should be glad to get to the
regimental doctor at Corfu.
Amabel sighed, and knew she ought to be convinced. The very pain it gave
her to lose sight of that green, grave, the chestnut-tree, and the white
mountain; to leave the rooms and passages which still, to her ears,
were haunted by Guy’s hushed step and voice, and to part with the window
where she used each wakeful night to retrace his profile as he had stood
pausing before telling her of his exceeding happiness; that very pain
made her think that opposition would be selfish. She must go some time
or other, and it was foolish to defer the struggle; she must not detain
her parents in an infected place, nor keep her mother from Charles. She
therefore consented, and let them do what they pleased,--only insisting
on Arnaud’s being left with Philip.
Philip did not think this necessary, but yielded, when she urged it as
a relief to her own mind; and Arnaud, though unwilling, and used to his
own way, could make no objection when she asked it as a personal favour.
Arnaud was, at his own earnest wish, to continue in her service; and, as
soon as Philip was able to embark, was to follow her to Hollywell.
All this time nothing passed about Laura. Amabel asked several times
whether papa had spoken, but was always answered, ‘Not yet;’ and at last
Mrs. Edmonstone, after vainly trying to persuade him, was obliged to
give it up. The truth was, he could not begin; he was afraid of his
nephew, and so unused to assume superiority over him that he did
not know what to do, and found all kinds of reasons for avoiding the
embarrassing scene. Since Philip still must be dealt with cautiously,
better not enter on the subject at all. When reminded that the suspense
was worse than anything, he said, no one could tell how things would,
turn out, and grew angry with his wife for wishing him to make up a
shameful affair like that, when poor Guy had not been dead a week, and
he had been the death of him; but it was just like mamma, she always
spoilt him. He had a great mind to vow never to consent to his
daughter’s marrying such an overbearing, pragmatical fellow; she ought
to be ashamed of even thinking of him, when he was no better than her
brother’s murderer.
After this tirade, Mrs. Edmonstone might well feel obliged to tell
Amabel, that papa must not be pressed any further; and, of course, if he
would not speak, she could not (nor did she wish it).
‘Then, mamma,’ said Amabel, with the air of decision that had lately
grown on her, ‘I must tell him. I beg your pardon,’ she added,
imploringly; ‘but indeed I must. It is hard on him not to hear that you
had not his letter, and that Laura has told. I know Guy would wish me,
so don’t be displeased, dear mamma.’
‘I can’t be displeased with anything you do.’
‘And you give me leave?’
‘To be sure I do,--leave to do anything but hurt yourself.’
‘And would it be wrong for me to offer to write to him? No one else
will, and it will be sad for him not to hear. It cannot be wrong,
can it?’ said she, as the fingers of her right hand squeezed her
wedding-ring, a habit she had taken up of late.
‘Certainly not, my poor darling. Do just as you think fit. I am sorry
for him, for I am sure he is in great trouble, and I should like him to
be comforted--if he can. But, Amy, you must not ask me to do it. He has
disappointed me too much.’
Mrs. Edmonstone left the room in tears.
Amabel went up to the window, looked long at the chestnut-tree, then
up into the sky, sat down, and leant her forehead on her hand in
meditation, until she rose up, cheered and sustained, as if she had been
holding council with her husband.
She did not over-estimate Philip’s sufferings from suspense and anxiety.
He had not heard a word of Laura; how she had borne his illness, nor how
much displeasure his confession had brought upon her; nor could he learn
what hope there was that his repentance was accepted. He did not venture
to ask; for after engaging to leave all to them, could he intrude his
own concerns on them at such a time? It was but a twelvemonth since
he had saddened and shadowed Guy’s short life and love with the
very suffering from uncertainty that he found so hard to bear. As he
remembered this, he had a sort of fierce satisfaction in enduring this
retributive justice; though there were moods when he felt the torture so
acutely, that it seemed to him as if his brain would turn if he saw them
depart, and was left behind to this distracting doubt.
The day had come, on which they were to take their first stage, as far
as Vicenza, and his last hopes were fading. He tried to lose the sense
of misery by bestirring himself in the preparations; but he was too
weak, and Mrs. Edmonstone, insisting on his attempting no more, sent him
back: to his own sitting-room.
Presently there was a knock, and in came Amabel, dressed, for the first
time, in her weeds, the blackness and width of her sweeping crape making
her young face look smaller and paler, while she held in her hand some
leaves of chestnut, that showed where she had been. She smiled a little
as she came in, saying, ‘I am come to you for a little quiet, out of the
bustle of packing up. I want you to do something for me.’
‘Anything for you.’
‘It is what you will like to do,’ said she, with _that_ smile, ‘for it
is more for _him_ than for me. Could you, without teasing yourself, put
that into Latin for me, by and by? I think it should be in Latin, as it
is in a foreign country.’
She gave him a paper in her own writing.
GUY MORVILLE, OF REDCLYFFE, ENGLAND. DIED THE EVE OF ST. MICHAEL AND ALL
ANGELS, 18--AGED 21 1/2. I BELIEVE IN THE COMMUNION OF SAINTS.
‘Will you be so kind as to give it to Arnaud when it is done?’ she
continued; ‘he will send it to the man who is making the cross. I think
the kind people here will respect it.’
‘Yes,’ said Philip,’ it is soon done, and thank you for letting me do
it. But, Amy, I would not alter your choice; yet there is one that seems
to me more applicable “Greater love hath no man--“’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Amy; ‘but that has so high a meaning that
he could not bear it to be applied to him.’
‘Or rather, what right have I to quote it?’ said Philip, bitterly. ‘His
friend! No, Amy; you should rather choose, “If thine enemy thirst, give
him drink; for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.”
I am sure they are burning on mine,’ and he pressed his hand on his
forehead.
‘Don’t say such things. We both know that, at the worst of times, he
looked on you as a sincere friend.’
Philip groaned, and she thought it best to go on to something else.
‘I like this best,’ she said. ‘It will be nice to think of far away. I
should like, too, for these Italians to see the stranger has the same
creed as themselves.’
After a moment’s pause, during which he looked at the paper, he said,
‘Amy, I have one thing to ask of you. Will you write my name in the
Prayer-book?’
‘That I will,’ said she, and Philip drew it from under the sofa cushion,
and began putting together his pocket gold pen. While he was doing this,
she said, ‘Will you write to me sometimes? I shall be so anxious to know
how you get on.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said he; with a sigh, as if he would fain have said
more.
She paused; then said, abruptly, ‘Do you know they never had your
letter?’
‘Ha! Good heavens!’ cried he, starting up in consternation; ‘then they
don’t know it!’
‘They do. Sit down, Philip, and hear. I wanted to tell you about it.
They know it. Poor Laura was so unhappy when you were ill, that mamma
made it out from her.’
He obeyed the hand that invited him back to his seat, and turned his
face earnestly towards her. He must let her be his comforter, though a
moment before his mind would have revolted at troubling the newly-made
widow with his love affairs. Amabel told him, as fully and clearly as
she could, how the truth had come out, how gently Laura had been dealt
with, how Charles had been trying to soften his father, and papa had not
said one angry word to her.
‘They forgive her. Oh, Amy, thanks indeed! You have taken away one of
the heaviest burdens. I am glad, indeed, that she spoke first. For my
own part, I see through all their kindness and consideration how they
regard me.’
‘They know how sorry you are, and that you wrote to tell all,’ said
Amabel. ‘They forgive, indeed they do; but they cannot bear to speak
about it just yet.’
‘If you forgive, Amy,’ said he, in a husky voice, ‘I may hope for pardon
from any.’
‘Hush! don’t say that. You have been so kind, all this time, and we have
felt together so much, that no one could help forgetting anything that
went before. Then you will write to me; and will you tell me how to
direct to you?’
‘You will write to me?’ cried Philip, brightening for a moment with glad
surprise. ‘Oh, Amy, you will quite overpower me with your goodness!--The
coals of fire,’ he finished, sinking his voice, and again pressing his
hand to his brow.
‘You must not speak so, Philip,’ then looking at him, ‘Is your head
aching?’
‘Not so much aching as--’ he paused, and exclaimed, as if carried away
in spite of himself, ‘almost bursting with the thoughts of--of you,
Amy,--of him whom I knew too late,--wilfully misunderstood, envied,
persecuted; who,--oh! Amy, Amy, if you could guess at the anguish of but
one of my thoughts, you would know what the first murderer meant when he
said, “My punishment is greater than I can bear.”’
‘I can’t say don’t think,’ said Amy, in her sweet, calm tone; ‘for I
have seen how happy repentance made him, but I know it must be dreadful.
I suppose the worse it is at the time, the better it must be afterwards.
And I am sure this Prayer-book’--she had her hand on it all the time,
as if it was a pleasure to her to touch it again--‘must be a comfort
to you. Did you not see that he made me give it to you to use that day,
when, if ever, there was pardon and peace--’
‘I remember,’ said Philip, in a low, grave, heartfelt tone; and as she
took the pen, and was writing his name below the old inscription, he
added, ‘And the date, Amy, and--yes,’ as he saw her write ‘From
G. M.’--‘but put from A. F. M. too. Thank you! One thing more;’ he
hesitated, and spoke very low, ‘You _must_ write in it what you said
when you came to fetch me that day,--“A broken”’--
As she finished writing, Mrs. Edmonstone came in. ‘My Amy, all is ready.
We must go. Good-bye, Philip,’ said she, in the tone of one so eager for
departure as to fancy farewells would hasten it. However, she was not
more eager than Mr. Edmonstone, who rushed in to hurry them on, shaking
hands cordially with Philip, and telling him to make haste and recover
his good looks. Amabel held out her hand. She would fain have said
something cheering, but the power failed her. A deep colour came into
her cheeks; she drew her thick black veil over her face, and turned
away.
Philip came down-stairs with them, saw her enter the carriage followed
by her mother, Mr. Edmonstone outside. He remembered the gay smile with
which he last saw her seated in that carriage, and the active figure
that had sprung after her; he thought of the kind bright eyes that had
pleaded with him for the last time, and recollected the suspicions and
the pride with which he had plumed himself on his rejection, and thrown
away the last chance.
Should he ever see Amabel again? He groaned and went back to the
deserted rooms.