But nature to its inmost part
Faith had refined; and to her heart
A peaceful cradle given,
Calm as the dew drops free to rest
Within a breeze-fanned rose’s breast
Till it exhales to heaven.
--WORDSWORTH
It had long been a promise that Mr. Edmonstone should take Charlotte to
visit her grandmamma, in Ireland. They would have gone last autumn,
but for Guy’s illness, and now Aunt Charlotte wrote to hasten the
performance of the project. Lady Mabel was very anxious to see them,
she said; and having grown much more infirm of late, seemed to think
it would be the last meeting with her son. She talked so much of Mrs.
Edmonstone and Laura, that it was plain that she wished extremely for a
visit from them, though she did not like to ask it, in the present state
of the family.
A special invitation was sent to Bustle; indeed, Charles said Charlotte
could not have gone without his permission, for he reigned like a tyrant
over her, evidently believing her created for no purpose but to wait on
him, and take him to walk.
Laura was a great favourite at the cottage of Kilcoran, and felt she
ought to offer to go. Philip fully agreed, and held out home hopes of
following as soon as the session, was over, and he had been to Redclyffe
about some business that had been deferred too long.
And now it appeared that Mr. Edmonstone had a great desire to take
his wife, and she herself said, that under any other circumstances she
should have been very desirous of going. She had not been to Ireland
for fifteen years, and was sorry to have seen so little of her
mother-in-law; and now that it had been proved that Charles could exist
without her, she would not have hesitated to leave him, but for Amabel’s
state of health and spirits, which made going from home out of the
question.
Charles and Amabel did not think so. It was not to be endured, that when
grandmamma wished for her, she should stay at home for them without real
necessity; besides, the fatigue, anxiety, and sorrow she had undergone
of late, had told on her, and had made her alter perceptibly, from being
remarkably fresh and youthful, to be somewhat aged; and the change to a
new scene, where she could not be distressing herself at every failure
in cheerfulness of poor Amy’s, was just the thing to do her good.
Amabel was not afraid of the sole charge of Charles or of the baby, for
she had been taught but too well to manage for herself, she understood
Charles very well, and had too much quiet good sense to be fanciful
about her very healthy baby. Though she was inexperienced, with old
nurse hard by, and Dr. Mayerne at Broadstone, there was no fear of
her not having good counsel enough. She was glad to be of some use, by
enabling her mother to leave Charles, and her only fear was of being
dull company for him; but as he was so kind as to bear it, she would
do her best, and perhaps their neighbours would come and enliven him
sometimes.
Charles threw his influence into the same scale. His affectionate
observation had shown him that it oppressed Amabel’s spirits to be the
object of such constant solicitude, and he was convinced it would be
better for her, both to have some necessary occupation and to be free
from that perpetual mournful watching of her mother’s that caused her
to make the efforts to be cheerful which did her more harm than anything
else.
To let her alone to look and speak as she pleased without the fear of
paining and disappointing those she loved, keep the house quiet, and
give her the employment of household cares and attending on himself,
was, he thought, the best thing for her; and he was full of eagerness
and pleasure at the very notion of being of service to her, if only by
being good for nothing but to be waited on. He thought privately that
the spring of his mother’s mind had been so much injured by the grief
she had herself suffered for ‘her son Guy,’ her cruel disappointment in
Laura, and the way in which she threw herself into all Amy’s affliction,
that there was a general depression in her way of observing and
attending Amy, which did further harm; and that to change the current of
her thoughts, and bring her home refreshed and inspirited, would be the
beginning of improvement in all. Or, as he expressed it to Dr. Mayerne,
‘We shall set off on a new tack.’
His counsel and Mr. Edmonstone’s wishes at length decided mamma, on
condition that Mary Ross and Dr. Mayerne would promise to write on
alternate weeks a full report, moral and physical, as Charles called
it. So in due time the goods were packed, Mrs. Edmonstone cried heartily
over the baby, advised Amabel endlessly about her, and finally looked
back through her tears, as she drove away, to see Charles nodding and
waving his hand at the bay-window, and Amabel standing with her parting
smile and good-bye on the steps.
The reports, moral and physical, proved that Charles had judged wisely.
Amabel was less languid as she had more cause for exertion, and
seemed relieved by the absence of noise and hurry, spending more time
down-stairs, and appearing less weary in the evening. She still avoided
the garden, but she began to like short drives with her brother in the
pony-carriage, when he drove on in silence, and let her lean back and
gaze up into the sky, or into the far distance, undisturbed. Now
and then he would be rejoiced by a bright, genuine smile, perfectly
refreshing, at some of the pretty ways of the babe, a small but plump
and lively creature, beginning to grasp with her hands, laugh and gaze
about with eyes that gave promise of the peculiar colour and brilliancy
of her father’s. Amabel was afraid she might be tempted into giving
Charles too much of the little lady’s society; but he was very fond of
her, regarding her with an odd mixture of curiosity and amusement, much
entertained with watching what he called her unaccountable manners,
and greatly flattered when he could succeed in attracting her notice.
Indeed, the first time she looked full at him with a smile on the verge
of a laugh, it completely overcame him, by the indescribably forcible
manner in which it suddenly recalled the face which had always shone on
him like a sunbeam. Above all, it was worth anything to see the looks
she awoke in her mother, for which he must have loved her, even had she
not been Guy’s child.
In the evening, especially on Sunday, Amabel would sometimes talk to him
as she had never yet been able to do, about her last summer’s journey,
and her stay at Recoara, and his way of listening and answering had in
it something that gave her great pleasure; while, on his side, he deemed
each fresh word of Guy’s a sort of treasure for which to be grateful
to her. The brother and sister were a great help and happiness to each
other; Amabel found herself restored to Charles, as Guy had liked to
think of her, and Charles felt as if the old childish fancies were
fulfilled, in which he and Amy were always to keep house together. He
was not in the least dull; and though his good-natured visitors in the
morning were welcome, and received with plenty of his gay lively talk,
he did not by any means stand in need of the compassion they felt for
him, and could have done very well without them; while the evenings
alone with Amy had in them something so pleasant that they were almost
better than those when Mr. Ross and Mary came to tea. He wrote word to
his mother that she might be quite at ease about them, and he thought
Amy would get through the anniversaries of September better while the
house was quiet, so that she need not think of trying to hurry home.
He was glad to have done so, for the letters, which scarcely missed a
day in being written by his mother and Charlotte, seemed to show that
their stay was likely to be long. Lady Mabel was more broken than they
had expected, and claimed a long visit, as she was sure it would be
their last, while the Kilcoran party had taken possession of Laura and
Charlotte, as if they never meant to let them go. Charlotte wrote her
brother very full and very droll accounts of the Iricisms around her
which she enjoyed thoroughly, and Charles, declaring he never expected
to see little Charlotte come out in the character of the facetious
correspondent, used to send Mary Ross into fits of laughing by what he
read to her. Mr. Fielder, the tutor, wrote Charlotte, was very nearly
equal to Eveleen’s description of him, but very particularly agreeable,
in fact, the only man who had any conversation, whom she had seen since
she had been at Kilcoran.
‘Imagine,’ said Charles, ‘the impertinent little puss setting up for
intellectual conversation, forsooth!’
‘That’s what comes of living with good company,’ said Mary.
The brother and sister used sometimes to drive to Broadstone to fetch
their letters by the second post.
‘Charlotte, of course,’ said Charles, as he opened one. ‘My Lady
Morville, what’s yours?’
‘Only Mr. Markham,’ said Amabel, ‘about the winding up of our business
together, I suppose. What does Charlotte say?’
‘Charlotte is in a fit of impudence, for which she deserves
chastisement,’ said Charles, unable to help laughing, as he read,--
‘Our last event was a call from the fidus Achates, who, it seems, can no
longer wander up and down the Mediterranean without his pius Aeneas,
and so has left the army, and got a diplomatic appointment somewhere in
Germany. Lord Kilcoran has asked him to come and stay here, and Mabel
and I are quite sure he comes for a purpose. Of course he has chosen
this time, in order that he may be able to have his companion before his
eyes, as a model for courtship, and I wish I had you to help me look
on whenever Philip comes, as that laugh I must enjoy alone with Bustle.
However, when Philip will come we cannot think, for we have heard
nothing of him this age, not even Laura, and she is beginning to look
very anxious about him. Do tell us if you know anything about him.
The last letter was when parliament was prorogued, and he was going to
Redclyffe, at least three weeks ago.’
‘I wonder if Mr. Markham mentions him,’ said Amabel, hastily unfolding
her letter, which was, as she expected, about the executors’ business,
but glancing on to the end, she exclaimed,--
‘Ah! here it is. Listen, Charlie. “Mr. Morville has been here for
the last few weeks, and is, I fear, very unwell. He has been entirely
confined to the house, almost ever since his arrival, by violent
headache, which has completely disabled him from attending to business;
but he will not call in any advice. I make a point of going to see him
every day, though I believe my presence is anything but acceptable, as
in his present state of health and spirits, I cannot think it right that
he should be left to servants.” Poor fellow! Redclyffe has been too much
for him.’
‘Over-worked, I suppose,’ said Charles. ‘I thought he was coming it
pretty strong these last few weeks.’
‘Not even writing to Laura! How very bad he must be! I will write at
once to ask Mr. Markham for more particulars.’
She did so, and on the third day they drove again to fetch the answer.
It was a much worse account. Mr. Morville was, said Markham, suffering
dreadfully from headache, and lay on the sofa all day, almost unable to
speak or move, but resolved against having medical advice, though his
own treatment of himself did not at all succeed in relieving him. There
was extreme depression of spirits, and an unwillingness to see any one.
He had positively refused to admit either Lord Thorndale or Mr. Ashford,
and would hardly bear to see Markham himself, who, indeed, only forced
his presence on him from thinking it unfit to leave him entirely to the
servants, and would be much relieved if some of Mr. Morville’s friends
were present to free him from the responsibility.
‘Hem!’ said Charles. ‘I can’t say it sounds comfortable.’
‘It is just as I feared!’ said Amy. ‘Great excitability of brain and
nerve, Dr. Mayerne said. All the danger of a brain fever again! Poor
Laura! What is to be done?’
Charles was silent.
‘It is for want of some one to talk to him,’ said Amabel. ‘I know how
he broods over his sad recollections, and Redclyffe must make it so much
worse. If mamma and Laura were but at home to go to him, it might save
him, and it would be fearful for him to have another illness, reduced as
he is. How I wish he was here!’
‘He cannot come, I suppose,’ said Charles, ‘or he would be in Ireland.’
‘Yes. How well Guy knew when he said it would be worse for him than for
me! How I wish I could do something now to make up for running away from
him in Italy. If I was but at Redclyffe!’
‘Do you really wish it?’ said Charles, surprised.
‘Yes, if I could do him any good.’
‘Would you go there?’
‘If I had but papa or mamma to go with me.’
‘Do you think I should do as well?’
‘Charlie!’
‘If you think there would be any use in it, and choose to take the
trouble of lugging me about the country, I don’t see why you should
not.’
‘Oh! Charlie, how very, kind! How thankful poor Laura will be to you! I
do believe it will save him!’ cried Amabel, eagerly.
‘But, Amy,’--he paused--‘shall you like to see Redclyffe?’
‘Oh! that is no matter,’ said she, quickly. ‘I had rather see after
Philip than anything. I told you how he was made my charge, you know.
And Laura! Only will it not be too tiring for you?’
‘I can’t see how it should hurt me. But I forget, what is to be done
about your daughter?’
‘I don’t know what harm it could do her,’ said Amy, considering. ‘Mrs.
Gresham brought a baby of only three months old from Scotland the other
day, and she is six. It surely cannot hurt her, but we will ask Dr.
Mayerne.’
‘Mamma will never forgive us if we don’t take the doctor into our
councils.’
‘Arnaud can manage for us. We would sleep in London, and go on by an
early train, and we can take our--I mean my--carriage, for the journey
after the railroad. It would not be too much for you. How soon could we
go?’
‘The sooner the better,’ said Charles. ‘If we are to do him any good, it
must be speedily, or it will be a case of shutting the stable-door. Why
not to-morrow?’
The project was thoroughly discussed that evening, but still with the
feeling as if it could not be real, and when they parted at night they
said,--‘We will see how the scheme looks in the morning.’
Charles was still wondering whether it was a dream, when the first thing
he heard in the court below his window was--
‘Here, William, here’s a note from my lady for you to take to Dr.
Mayerne.’
‘They be none of them ill?’ answered William’s voice.
‘O no; my lady has been up this hour, and Mr. Charles has rung his bell.
Stop, William, my lady said you were to call at Harris’s and bring home
a “Bradshaw”.’
Reality, indeed, thought Charles, marvelling at his sister, and his
elastic spirits throwing him into the project with a sort of enjoyment,
partaking of the pleasure of being of use, the spirit of enterprise, and
the ‘fun’ of starting independently on an expedition unknown to all the
family.
He met Amabel with a smile that showed both were determined. He
undertook to announce the plan to his mother, and she said she would
write to tell Mr. Markham that as far as could be reckoned on two such
frail people, they would be at Redclyffe the next evening, and he must
use his own discretion about giving Mr. Morville the note which she
enclosed.
Dr. Mayerne came in time for breakfast, and the letter from Markham was
at once given to him.
‘A baddish state of things, eh, doctor!’ said Charles. ‘Well, what do
you think this lady proposes? To set off forthwith, both of us, to take
charge of him. What do you think of that, Dr. Mayerne?’
‘I should say it was the only chance for him,’ said the doctor, looking
only at the latter. ‘Spirits and health reacting on each other, I see
it plain enough. Over-worked in parliament, doing nothing in moderation,
going down to that gloomy old place, dreaming away by himself, going
just the right way to work himself into another attack on the brain, and
then he is done for. I don’t know that you could do a wiser thing than
go to him, for he is no more fit to tell what is good for him than a
child.’ So spoke the doctor, thinking only of the patient till looking
up at the pair he was dismissing to such a charge, the helpless,
crippled Charles, unable to cross the room without crutches, and Amabel,
her delicate face and fragile figure in her widow’s mourning, looking
like a thing to be pitied and nursed with the tenderest care, with that
young child, too, he broke off and said--‘But you don’t mean you are in
earnest?’
‘Never more so in our lives,’ said Charles; on which Dr. Mayerne looked
so wonderingly and inquiringly at Amabel, that she answered,--
‘Yes that we are, if you think it safe for Charles and baby.’
‘Is there no one else to go? What’s become of his sister?’
‘That would never do,’ said Charles, ‘that is not the question;’ and he
detailed their plan.
‘Well, I don’t see why it should not succeed,’ said the doctor, ‘or how
you can any of you damage yourselves.’
‘And baby?’ said Amy.
‘What should happen to her, do you think?’ said the doctor with
his kind, reassuring roughness. ‘Unless you leave her behind in the
carriage, I don’t see what harm she could come to, and even then, if
you direct her properly, she will come safe to hand.’ Amabel smiled, and
saying she would fetch her to be inspected, ran up-stairs with the light
nimble step of former days.
‘There goes one of the smallest editions of the wonders of the world!’
said Charles, covering a sigh with a smile. ‘You don’t think it will do
her any harm?’
‘Not if she wishes it. I have long thought a change, a break, would
be the best thing for her--poor child!--I should have sent her to the
sea-side if you had been more movable, and if I had not seen every fuss
about her made it worse.’
‘That’s what I call being a reasonable and valuable doctor,’ said
Charles. ‘If you had routed the poor little thing out to the sea, she
would have only pined the more. But suppose the captain turns out too
bad for her management, for old Markham seems in a proper taking?’
‘Hem! No, I don’t expect it is come to that.’
‘Be that as it may, I have a head, if nothing else, and some one is
wanted. I’ll write to you according as we find Philip.’
The doctor was wanted for another private interview, in which to assure
Amabel that there was no danger for Charles, and then, after promising
to come to Redclyffe if there was occasion, and engaging to write and
tell Mrs. Edmonstone they had his consent, he departed to meet them by
and by at the station, and put Charles into the carriage.
A very busy morning followed; Amabel arranged household affairs as
befitted the vice-queen; took care that Charles’s comforts were provided
for; wrote many a note; herself took down Guy’s picture, and laid it in
her box, before Anne commenced her packing; and lastly, walked down to
the village to take leave of Alice Lamsden.
Just as the last hues of sunset were fading, on the following evening,
Lady Morville and Charles Edmonstone were passing from the moor into
the wooded valley of Redclyffe. Since leaving Moorworth not a word had
passed. Charles sat earnestly watching his sister; though there was too
much crape in the way for him to see her face, and she was perfectly
still, so that all he could judge by was the close, rigid clasping
together of the hands, resting on the sleeping infant’s white mantle.
Each spot recalled to him some description of Guy’s, the church-tower,
the school with the two large new windows, the park wall, the rising
ground within. What was she feeling? He did not dare to address her,
till, at the lodge-gate, he exclaimed--‘There’s Markham;’ and, at the
same time, was conscious of a feeling between hope and fear, that this
might after all be a fool’s errand, and a wonder how they and the master
of the house would meet if it turned out that they had taken fright
without cause.
At his exclamation, Amy leant forward, and beckoned. Markham came up to
the window, and after the greeting on each side, walked along with
his hand on the door, as the carriage slowly mounted the steep hill,
answering her questions: ‘How is he?’
‘No better. He has been putting on leeches, and made himself so giddy,
that yesterday he could hardly stand.’
‘And they have not relieved him?’
‘Not in the least. I am glad you are come, for it has been an absurd way
of going on.’
‘Is he up?’
‘Yes; on the sofa in the library.’
‘Did you give him my note? Does he expect us?’
‘No, I went to see about telling him this morning, but found him so low
and silent, I thought it was better not. He has not opened a letter this
week, and he might have refused to see you, as he did Lord Thorndale.
Besides, I didn’t know how he would take my writing about him, though
if you had not written, I believe I should have let Mrs. Henley know by
this time.’
‘There is an escape for him,’ murmured Charles to his sister.
‘We have done the best in our power to receive you’ proceeded Markham;
‘I hope you will find it comfortable, Lady Morville, but--’
‘Thank you, I am not afraid,’ said Amy, smiling a little. Markham’s eye
was on the little white bundle in her lap, but he did not speak of
it, and went on with explanations about Mrs. Drew and Bolton and the
sitting-room, and tea being ready.
Charles saw the great red pile of building rise dark, gloomy, and
haunted-looking before them. The house that should have been Amabel’s!
Guy’s own beloved home! How could she bear it? But she was eagerly
asking Markham how Philip should be informed of their arrival, and
Markham was looking perplexed, and saying, that to drive under the
gateway, into the paved court, would make a thundering sound, that he
dreaded for Mr. Morville. Could Mr. Charles Edmonstone cross the court
on foot? Charles was ready to do so; the carriage stopped, Amabel gave
the baby to Anne, saw Arnaud help Charles out; and turning to Markham,
said, ‘I had better go to him at once. Arnaud will show my brother the
way.’
‘The sitting-room, Arnaud’ said Markham, and walked on fast with her,
while Charles thought how strange to see her thus pass the threshold of
her husband’s house, come thither to relieve and comfort his enemy.
She entered the dark-oak hall. On one side the light shone cheerfully
from the sitting-room, the other doors were all shut. Markham hesitated,
and stood reluctant.
‘Yes, you had better tell him I am here,’ said she, in the voice, so
gentle, that no one perceived its resolution.
Markham knocked at one of the high heavy doors, and softly opened it.
Amabel stood behind it, and looked into the room, more than half dark,
without a fire, and very large, gloomy, and cheerless, in the gray
autumn twilight, that just enabled her to see the white pillows on the
sofa, and Philip’s figure stretched out on it. Markham advanced and
stood doubtful for an instant, then in extremity, began--‘Hem! Lady
Morville is come, and--’
Without further delay she came forward, saying--‘How are you, Philip?’
He neither moved nor seemed surprised, he only said, ‘So you are come to
heap more coals on my head.’
A thrill of terror came over her, but she did not show it, as she said,
‘I am sorry to find you so poorly.’
It seemed as if before he had taken her presence for a dream; for,
entirely roused, he exclaimed, in a tone of great surprise, ‘Is it you,
Amy?’ Then sitting up, ‘Why? When did you come here?’
‘Just now. We were afraid you were ill, we heard a bad account of you,
so we have taken you by storm: Charles, your goddaughter, and I, are
come to pay you a visit.’
‘Charles! Charles here?’ cried Philip, starting up. ‘Where is he?’
‘Coming in,’ said Amy; and Philip, intent only on hospitality, hastened
into the hall, and met him at the door, gave him his arm and conducted
him where the inviting light guided them to the sitting-room. The full
brightness of lamp and fire showed the ashy paleness of his face; his
hair, rumpled with lying on the sofa, had, on the temples, acquired a
noticeable tint of gray, his whole countenance bore traces of terrible
suffering; and Amabel thought that even at Recoara she had never seen
him look more wretchedly ill.
‘How did you come?’ he asked. ‘It was very kind. I hope you will be
comfortable.’
‘We have taken good care of ourselves,’ said Amy. ‘I wrote to Mr.
Markham, for I thought you were not well enough to be worried with
preparations. We ought to beg your pardon for breaking on you so
unceremoniously.’
‘If any one should be at home here--’ said Philip, earnestly;--then
interrupting himself, he shaded his eyes from the light, ‘I don’t know
how to make you welcome enough. When did you set off?’
‘Yesterday afternoon,’ said Charles; ‘we slept in London, and came on
to-day.’
‘Have you dined?’ said Philip, looking perplexed to know where the
dinner could come from.
‘Yes; at K----, thank you.’
‘What will you have? I’ll ring for Mrs. Drew.’
‘No, thank you; don’t tease yourself. Mrs. Drew will take care of us.
Never mind; but how bad your head is!’ said Amabel, as he sat down on
the sofa, leaning his elbow on his knee, and pressing his hand very hard
on his forehead. ‘You must lie down and keep quiet, and never mind us.
We only want a little tea. I am just going to take off my bonnet, and
see what they have done with baby, and then I’ll come down. Pray lie
still till then. Mind he does, Charlie.’
They thought she was gone; but the next moment there she was with the
two pillows from the library sofa, putting them under Philip’s head,
and making him comfortable; while he, overpowered by a fresh access of
headache, had neither will nor power to object. She rang, asked for Mrs.
Drew, and went.
Philip lay, with closed eyes, as if in severe pain: and Charles, afraid
to disturb him, sat feeling as if it was a dream. That he, with Amy and
her child, should be in Guy’s home, so differently from their old plans,
so very differently from the way she should have arrived. He looked
round the room, and everywhere knew what Guy’s taste had prepared for
his bride--piano, books, prints, similarities to Hollywell, all with
a fresh new bridal effect, inexpressibly melancholy. They brought a
thought of the bright eye, sweet voice, light step, and merry whistle;
and as he said to himself ‘gone for ever,’ he could have hated Philip,
but for the sight of his haggard features, gray hairs, and the deep
lines which, at seven-and-twenty, sorrow had traced on his brow. At
length Philip turned and looked up.
‘Charles,’ he said, ‘I trust you have not let her run any risk.’
‘No: we got Dr. Mayerne’s permission.’
‘It is like all the rest,’ said Philip, closing his eyes again.
Presently he asked: ‘How did you know I was not well?’
‘Markham said something in a business letter that alarmed Amy. She wrote
to inquire, and on his second letter we thought we had better come and
see after you ourselves.’
No more was said till Amabel returned. She had made some stay up-stairs,
talking to Mrs. Drew, who was bewildered between surprise, joy, and
grief; looking to see that all was comfortable in Charles’s room, making
arrangements for the child, and at last relieving herself by a short
space of calm, to feel where she was, realize that this was Redclyffe,
and whisper to her little girl that it was her father’s own home. She
knew it was the room he had destined for her; she tried, dark as it
was, to see the view of which he had told her, and looked up, over the
mantel-piece, at Muller’s engraving of St. John. Perhaps that was the
hardest time of all her trial, and she felt as if, without his child
in her arms, she could never have held up under the sense of desolation
that came over her, left behind, while he was in his true home. Left,
she told herself, to finish the task he had begun, and to become fit to
follow him. Was she not in the midst of fulfilling his last charge, that
Philip should be taken, care of? It was no time for giving way, and here
was his own little messenger of comfort looking up with her sleepy eyes
to tell her so. Down she must go, and put off ‘thinking herself into
happiness’ till the peaceful time of rest; and presently she softly
re-entered the sitting-room, bringing to both its inmates in her very
presence such solace as she little guessed, in her straightforward
desire to nurse Philip, and take care Charles was not made
uncomfortable.
That stately house had probably never, since its foundation, seen
anything so home-like as Amabel making tea and waiting on her two
companions; both she and Charles pleasing each other by enjoying the
meal, and Philip giving his cup to be filled again and again, and
wondering why one person’s tea should taste so unlike another’s.
He was not equal to conversation, and Charles and Amabel were both
tired, so that tea was scarcely over before they parted for the night;
and Amy, frightened at the bright and slipperiness of the dark-oak
stairs, could not be at peace till she had seen Arnaud help Charles
safely up them, and made him promise not to come down without assistance
in the morning.
She was in the sitting-room soon after nine next morning, and found
breakfast on one table, and Charles writing a letter on the other.
‘Well,’ said he, as she kissed him, ‘all right with you and little
miss?’
‘Quite, thank you. And are you rested?’
‘Slept like a top; and what did you do? Did you sleep like a sensible
woman?’
‘Pretty well, and baby was very good. Have you heard anything of
Philip?’
‘Bolton thinks him rather better, and says he is getting up.’
‘How long have you been up?’
‘A long time. I told Arnaud to catch Markham when he came up, as
he always does in a morning to see after Philip, and I have had a
conference with him and Bolton, so that I can lay the case before Dr.
Mayerne scientifically.’
‘What do you think of it?’
‘I think we came at the right time. He has been getting more and more
into work in London, taking no exercise, and so was pretty well knocked
up when he came here; and this place finished it. He tried to attend to
business about the property, but it always ended in his head growing
so bad, he had to leave all to Markham, who, by the way, has been
thoroughly propitiated by his anxiety for him. Then he gave up entirely;
has not been out of doors, written a note, nor seen a creature the last
fortnight, but there he has lain by himself in the library, given up to
all manner of dismal thoughts without a break.’
‘How dreadful!’ said Annabel, with tears in her eyes. ‘Then he would not
see Mr. Ashford? Surely, he could have done something for him.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Charles, lowering his voice,’ from what
Bolton says, I think he had a dread of worse than brain fever.’
She shuddered, and was paler, but did not speak.
‘I believe,’ continued Charles, ‘that it is one half nervous and the
oppression of this place, and the other half, the over-straining of a
head that was already in a ticklish condition. I don’t think there was
any real danger of more than such a fever as he had at Corfu, which
would probably have been the death of him; but I think he dreaded still
worse, and that his horror of seeing any one, or writing to Laura, arose
from not knowing how far he could control his words.’
‘O! I am glad we came,’ repeated Amabel, pressing her hands together.
‘He has been doctoring himself,’ proceeded Charles; ‘and probably has
kept off the fever by strong measures, but, of course, the more he
reduced his strength, the greater advantage he gave to what was simply
low spirits. He must have had a terrible time of it, and where it would
have ended I cannot guess, but it seems to me that most likely, now that
he is once roused, he will come right again.’
Just as Charles had finished speaking, he came down, looking extremely
ill, weak, and suffering; but calmed, and resting on that entire
dependence on Amabel which had sprung up at Recoara.
She would not let him go back to his gloomy library, but made him lie
on the sofa in the sitting-room, and sat there herself, as she thought
a little quiet conversation between her and Charles would be the best
thing for him. She wrote to Laura, and he sent a message, for he could
not yet attempt to write; and Charles wrote reports to his mother and
Dr. Mayerne; a little talk now and then going on about family matters.
Amabel asked Philip if he knew that Mr. Thorndale was at Kilcoran.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he believed there was a letter from him, but his eyes
had ached too much of late to read.’
Mrs. Ashford sent in to ask whether Lady Morville would like to see her.
Amabel’s face flushed, and she proposed going to her in the library; but
Philip, disliking Amy’s absence more than the sight of a visitor, begged
she might come to the sitting-room.
The Ashfords had been surprised beyond measure at the tidings that
Lady Morville had actually come to Redclyffe, and had been very slow
to believe it; but when convinced by Markham’s own testimony, Mrs.
Ashford’s first idea had been to go and see if she could be any help to
the poor young thing in that great desolate house, whither Mrs. Ashford
had not been since, just a year ago, Markham had conducted her to admire
his preparations. There was much anxiety, too, about Mr. Morville, of
whose condition, Markham had been making a great mystery, and on her
return, Mr. Ashford was very eager for her report.
Mr. Morville, she said, did look and seem very far from well, but Lady
Morville had told her they hoped it was chiefly from over fatigue, and
that rest would soon restore him. Lady Morville herself was a fragile
delicate creature, very sweet looking, but so gentle and shrinking,
apparently, that it gave the impression of her having no character at
all, not what Mrs. Ashford would have expected Sir Guy to choose. She
had spoken very little, and the chief of the conversation had been
sustained by her brother.
‘I was very much taken with that young Mr. Edmonstone,’ said Mrs.
Ashford; ‘he is about three-and-twenty, sadly crippled, but with such a
pleasing, animated face, and so extremely agreeable and sensible, I
do not wonder at Sir Guy’s enthusiastic way of talking of him. I
could almost fancy it was admiration of the brother transferred to the
sister.’
‘Then after all you are disappointed in her, and don’t lament, like
Markham, that she is not mistress here?’
‘No: I won’t say I am disappointed; she is a very sweet creature. O yes,
very! but far too soft and helpless for such a charge as this property,
unless she had her father or brother to help her. But I must tell you
that she took me to see her baby, a nice little lively thing, poor
little dear! and when we were alone, she spoke rather more, begged me
to send her godson to see her, thanked me for coming, but crying stopped
her from saying more. I could grow very fond of her. No, I don’t wonder
at him, for there is a great charm in anything so soft and dependent.
Decidedly, Mary Ross had been right when she said, that except Sir Guy,
there was no one so difficult to know as Amy.
In the afternoon, Charles insisted on Amabel’s going out for fresh
air and exercise, and she liked the idea of a solitary wandering; but
Philip, to her surprise, offered to come with her, and she was too glad
to see him exert himself, to regret the musings she had hoped for; so
out they went, after opening the window to give Charles what he called
an airing, and he said, that in addition he should ‘hirple about a
little to explore the ground-floor of the house.’
‘We must contrive some way for him to drive out,’ said Philip, as he
crossed the court with Amabel; ‘and you too. There is no walk here, but
up hill or down.’
Up-hill they went, along the path leading up the green slope, from which
the salt wind blew refreshingly. In a few minutes, Amabel found herself
on a spot which thrilled her all over.
There lay before her Guy’s own Redclyffe bay; the waves lifting their
crests and breaking, the surge resounding, the sea-birds skimming round,
the Shag Rock dark and rugged, the scene which seemed above all the
centre of his home affections, which he had so longed to show her,
that it had cost him an effort on his death-bed to resign the hope;
the leaping waves that he said he would not change for the white-headed
mountains. And now he was lying among those southern mountains, and she
stood in the spot where he had loved to think of seeing her; and with
Philip by her side. His sea, his own dear sea, the vision of which had
cheered, his last day, like the face of a dear old friend; his sea,
rippling and glancing on, unknowing that the eyes that had loved it so
well would gaze on it no more; the wind that he had longed for to
cool his fevered brow, the rock which had been like a playmate in his
boyhood, and where he had perilled his life, and rescued so many. It
was one of the seasons when a whole gush of fresh perceptions of his
feelings, like a new meeting with himself, would come on her, her best
of joys; and there she stood, gazing fixedly, her black veil fluttering
in the wind, and her hands pressed close together, till Philip, little
knowing what the sight was to her, shivered, saying it was very cold
and windy, and without hesitation she turned away, feeling that now
Redclyffe was precious indeed.
She brought her mind back to listen, while Philip was considering of
means of taking Charles out of doors; he supposed there might be some
vehicle about the place; but he thought there was no horse. Very unlike
was this to the exact Philip. The great range of stables was before
them, where the Morvilles had been wont to lodge their horses as
sumptuously as themselves, and Amabel proposed to go and see what they
could find; but nothing was there but emptiness, till they came to
a pony in one stall, a goat in another, and one wheelbarrow in the
coach-house.
On leaving it, under the long-sheltered sunny wall, they came in
sight of a meeting between the baby taking the air in Anne’s arms,
and Markham, who had been hovering about all day, anxious to know
how matters were going on. His back was towards them, so that he was
unconscious of their approach, and they saw how he spoke to Anne, looked
fixedly at the child, made her laugh, and finally took her in his arms,
as he had so often carried her father, studying earnestly her little
face. As soon as he saw them coming, he hastily gave her back to Anne,
as if ashamed to be thus caught, but he was obliged to grunt and put
his hand up to his shaggy eyelashes, before he could answer Amabel’s
greeting.
He could hardly believe his eyes, that here was Mr. Morville, who
yesterday was scarcely able to raise his head from the pillow, and could
attend to nothing. He could not think what Lady Morville had done to
him, when he heard him inquiring and making arrangements about sending
for a pony carriage, appearing thoroughly roused, and the dread of being
seen or spoken to entirely passed away, Markham was greatly rejoiced,
for Mr. Morville’s illness, helplessness, and dependence upon himself,
had softened and won him to regard him kindly as nothing else would have
done; and his heart was entirely gained when, after they had wished him
good-bye, he saw Philip and Amabel walk on, overtake Anne, Amy take the
baby and hold her up to Philip, who looked at her with the same earnest
interest. From thenceforward Markham knew that Redclyffe was nothing but
a burden to Mr. Morville, and he could bear to see it in his possession
since like himself, he seemed to regard Sir Guy’s daughter like a
disinherited princess.
This short walk fatigued Philip thoroughly. He slept till dinner-time,
and when he awoke said it was the first refreshing dreamless sleep
he had had for weeks. His head was much better, and at dinner he had
something like an appetite.
It was altogether a day of refreshment, and so were the ensuing ones.
Each day Philip became stronger, and resumed more of his usual habits.
From writing a few lines in Amabel’s daily letter to Laura, he proceeded
to filling the envelope, and from being put to sleep by Charles’s
reading, to reading aloud the whole evening himself. The pony carriage
was set up, and he drove Charles out every day, Amabel being then
released from attending him, and free to enjoy herself in her own way in
rambles about the house and park, and discoveries of the old haunts she
knew so well by description.
She early found her way to Guy’s own room, where she would walk up and
down with her child in her arms, talking to her, and holding up to her,
to be admired, the treasures of his boyhood, that Mrs. Drew delighted to
keep in order. One day, when alone in the sitting-room, she thought of
trying the piano he had chosen for her. It was locked, but the key was
on her own split-ring, where he had put it for her the day he returned
from London. She opened it, and it so happened, that the first note she
struck reminded her of one of the peculiarly sweet and deep tones of
Guy’s voice. It was like awaking its echo again, and as it died away,
she hid her face and wept. But from that time the first thing she did
when her brother and cousin were out, was always to bring down her
little girl, and play to her, watching how she enjoyed the music.
Little Mary prospered in the sea air, gained colour, took to springing
and laughing; and her intelligent lively way of looking about brought
out continually more likeness to her father. Amabel herself was no
longer drooping and pining, her step grew light and elastic, a shade of
pink returned to her cheek, and the length of walk she could take was
wonderful, considering her weakness in the summer. Every day she stood
on the cliff and looked at ‘Guy’s sea,’ before setting out to visit the
cottages, and hear the fond rough recollections of Sir Guy, or to wander
far away into the woods or on the moor, and find the way to the places
he had loved. One day, when Philip and Charles came in from a drive,
they overtook her in the court, her cloak over her arm, her crape limp
with spray, her cheeks brightened to a rosy glow by the wind, and a
real smile as she looked up to them. When Charles was on his sofa, she
stooped over him and whispered, ‘James and Ben Robinson have taken me
out to the Shag!’
She saw Mr. Wellwood, and heard a good account of Coombe Prior. She made
great friends with the Ashfords, especially little Lucy and the baby.
She delighted in visits to the cottages, and Charles every day wondered
where was the drooping dejection that she could not shake off at home.
She would have said that in Guy’s own home, ‘the joy’ had come to her,
no longer in fitful gleams and held by an effort for a moment, but
steadily brightening. She missed him indeed, but the power of finding
rest in looking forward to meeting him, the pleasure of dwelling on the
days he had been with her, and the satisfaction of doing his work for
the present, had made a happiness for her, and still in him, quiet,
grave, and subdued, but happiness likely to bloom more and more brightly
throughout her life. The anniversary of his death was indeed a day of
tears, but the tears were blessed ones, and she was more full of the
feeling that had sustained her on that morning, than she had been
through all the year before.
Charles and Philip, meanwhile, proceeded excellently together, each very
anxious for the comfort of the other. Philip was a good deal overwhelmed
at first by the quantity of business on his hands, and setting about it
while his head was still weak, would have seriously hurt himself again,
if Charles had not come to his help, worked with a thorough good will,
great clearness and acuteness, and surprised Philip by his cleverness
and perseverance. He was elated at being of so much use; and begged to
be considered for the future as Philip’s private secretary, to which
the only objection was, that his handwriting was as bad as Philip’s was
good; but it was an arrangement so much to the benefit of both parties,
that it was gladly made. Philip was very grateful for such valuable
assistance; and Charles amused himself with triumphing in his
importance, when he should sit in state on his sofa at Hollywell,
surrounded with blue-books, getting up the statistics for some
magnificent speech of the honourable member for Moorworth.
In the meantime, Charles and Amabel saw no immediate prospect of
their party returning from Ireland, and thought it best to remain at
Redclyffe, since Philip had so much to do there; and besides, events
were occurring at Kilcoran which would have prevented his visit, even
without his illness.
One of the first drives that Charles and Philip took, after the latter
was equal to any exertion, was to Thorndale. There Charles was much
amused by the manner in which Philip was received, and he himself, for
his sake; and as he said to Amabel on his return, there was no question
now, that the blame of spoiling Philip did not solely rest at Hollywell.
Finding only Lady Thorndale at home, and hearing that Lord Thorndale was
in the grounds, Philip went out to look for him, leaving Charles on the
sofa, under her ladyship’s care. Charles, with a little exaggeration,
professed that he had never been so flattered in his whole life, as
he was by the compliments that reflected on him as the future
brother-in-law of Philip; and that he had really begun to think even
Laura not half sensible enough of her own happiness. Lady Thorndale
afterwards proceeded to inquiries about the De Courcy family, especially
Lady Eveleen; and Charles, enlightened by Charlotte, took delight in
giving a brilliant description of his cousin’s charms, for which he
was rewarded by very plain intimations of the purpose for which her son
James was gone to Kilcoran.
On talking the visit over, as they drove home, Charles asked Philip if
he had guessed at his friend’s intentions. ‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘Then you never took the credit of it. Why did you not tell us?’
‘I knew it from himself, in confidence.’
‘Oh!’ said Charles, amusing himself with the notion of the young man’s
dutifully asking the permission of his companion, unshaken in allegiance
though the staff might be broken, and the book drowned deeper than did
ever plummet sound. Philip spoke no more, and Charles would ask no
more, for Philip’s own affairs of the kind were not such as to encourage
talking of other people’s. No explanation was needed why he should now
promote an attachment which he had strongly disapproved while James
Thorndale was still in the army.
A day or two after, however, came a letter from Charlotte, bringing
further news, at which Charles was so amazed, that he could not help
communicating it at once to his companions.
‘So! Eveleen won’t have him!’
‘What?’ exclaimed both.
‘You don’t mean that she has refused Thorndale?’ said Philip.
‘Even so!’ said Charles. ‘Charlotte says he is gone. “Poor Mr. Thorndale
left us this morning, after a day of private conferences, in which
he seems to have had no satisfaction, for his resolute dignity and
determination to be agreeable all the evening were”--ahem--“were great.
Mabel cannot get at any of the real reasons from Eveleen, though I think
I could help her, but I can’t tell you.”’
‘Charlotte means mischief.’ said Charles, as he concluded.
‘I am very sorry!’ said Philip. ‘I did think Lady Eveleen would have
been able to estimate Thorndale. It will be a great disappointment--the
inclination has been of long standing. Poor Thorndale!’
‘It would have been a very good thing for Eva,’ said Amabel. ‘Mr.
Thorndale is such a sensible man.’
‘And I thought his steady sense just what was wanting to bring out all
her good qualities that are running to waste in that irregular home,’
said Philip. ‘What can have possessed her?’
‘Ay! something must have possessed her,’ said Charles. ‘Eva was always
ready to be fallen in love with on the shortest notice, and if there
was not something prior in her imagination, Thorndale would not have had
much difficulty. By the bye, depend upon it, ‘tis the tutor.’
Philip looked a little startled, but instantly reassuring himself,
said,--
‘George Fielder! Impossible! You have never seen him!’
‘Ah! don’t you remember her description!’ said Amy, in a low voice,
rather sadly.
The very reason, Amy,’ said Charles; ‘it showed that he had attracted
her fancy.’
Philip smiled a little incredulously.
‘Ay!’ said Charles, ‘you may smile, but you handsome men can little
appreciate the attractiveness of an interesting ugliness. It is the way
to be looked at in the end. Mark my words, it is the tutor.’
‘I hope not!’ said Philip, as if shaken in his confidence. ‘Any way it
is a bad affair. I am very much concerned for Thorndale.’
So sincerely concerned, that his head began to ache in the midst of some
writing. He was obliged to leave it to Charles to finish, and go out to
walk with Amy.
Amabel came in before him, and began to talk to Charles about his great
vexation at his friend’s disappointment.
‘I am almost sorry you threw out that hint about Mr. Fielder,’ said she.
‘Don’t you remember how he was recommended?’
‘Ah! I had forgotten it was Philip’s doing; a bit of his spirit of
opposition,’ said Charles. ‘Were not the boys to have gone to Coombe
Prior?’
‘Yes’ said Amabel, ‘that is the thing that seems to have made him
so unhappy about it. I am sure I hope it is not true,’ she added,
considering, ‘for, Charlie, you must know that Guy had an impression
against him.’
‘Had he?’ said Charles, anxiously.
‘It was only an impression, nothing he could accuse him of, or mention
to Lord Kilcoran. He would have told no one but me, but he had seen
something of him at Oxford, and thought him full of conversation,
very clever, only not the sort of talk he liked.’ ‘I don’t like that.
Charlotte concurs in testifying to his agreeableness; and in the dearth
of intellect, I should not wonder at Eva’s taking up with him. He would
be a straw to the drowning. It looks dangerous.’
They were very anxious for further intelligence, but received none,
except that Philip had a letter from his friend, on which his only
comment was a deep sigh, and ‘Poor Thorndale! She little knows what
she has thrown away!’ Letters from Kilcoran became rare; Laura scarcely
wrote at all to Philip, and though Mrs. Edmonstone wrote as usual, she
did not notice the subject; while Charlotte’s gravity and constraint,
when she did achieve a letter to Charles, were in such contrast to her
usual free and would-be satirical style, that such eyes as her brother’s
could hardly fail to see that something was on her mind.
So it went on week after week, Charles and Amabel wondering when they
should ever have any notice to go home, and what their family could be
doing in Ireland. October had given place to November, and more than a
week of November had passed, and here they still were, without anything
like real tidings.
At last came a letter from Mrs. Edmonstone, which Amabel could not
read without one little cry of surprise and dismay, and then had some
difficulty in announcing its contents to Philip.
‘Kilcoran, Nov. 8th.
‘My Dearest Amy,--You will be extremely surprised at what I have to tell
you, and no less grieved. It has been a most unpleasant, disgraceful
business from beginning to end, and the only comfort in it to us is the
great discretion and firmness that Charlotte has shown. I had better,
however, begin at the beginning, and tell you the history as far as I
understand it myself. You know that Mr. James Thorndale has been here,
and perhaps you know it was for the purpose of making an offer to
Eveleen. Every one was much surprised at her refusing him, and still
more when, after much prevarication, it came out that the true motive
was her attachment to Mr. Fielder, the tutor. It appeared that they had
been secretly engaged for some weeks, ever since they had perceived
Mr. Thorndale’s intentions, and not, as it was in poor Laura’s case,
an unavowed attachment, but an absolute engagement. And fancy Eva
justifying it by Laura’s example! There was of course great anger and
confusion. Lord Kilcoran was furious, poor Lady Kilcoran had nervous
attacks, the gentleman was dismissed from the house, and supposed to be
gone to England, Eva shed abundance of tears, but after a great deal of
vehemence she appeared subdued and submissive. We were all very sorry
for her, as there is much that is very agreeable and likely to attract
her in Mr. Fielder, and she always had too much mind to be wasted in
such a life as she leads here. It seemed as if Laura was a comfort
to her, and Lady Kilcoran was very anxious we should stay as long
as possible. This was all about three weeks or a month ago; Eva was
recovering her spirits, and I was just beginning a letter to tell you we
hoped to be at home in another week, when Charlotte came into my room in
great distress to tell me that Eveleen and Mr. Fielder were on the verge
of a run-away marriage. Charlotte had been coming back alone from a
visit to grandmamma, and going down a path out of the direct way to
recall Bustle, who had run on, she said, as if he scented mischief,
came, to her great astonishment, on Eveleen walking arm-in-arm with Mr.
Fielder! Charlie will fancy how Charlotte looked at them! They shuffled,
and tried to explain it away, but Charlotte was too acute for them, or
rather, she held steadily to “be that as it may, Lord Kilcoran ought
to know it.” They tried to frighten her with the horrors of betraying
secrets, but she said none had been confided to her, and mamma would
judge. They tried to persuade her it was the way of all lovers, and
appealed to Laura s example, but there little Charlotte was less to be
shaken than on any point. “I did not think them worthy to hear their
names,” she said to me, “but I told them, that I had seen that the
truest and deepest of love had a horror of all that was like wrong,
and as to Philip and Laura, they little knew what they had suffered;
besides, theirs was not half so bad.” I verily believe these were the
very words she used to them. At last Eva threw herself on her mercy,
and begged so vehemently that she would only wait another day, that she
suspected, and, with sharpness very like Charlie’s, forced from Eva that
they were to marry the next morning. Then she said it would be a great
deal better that they should abuse her and call her a spy than do what
they would repent of all their lives; she begged Eva’s pardon, and cried
so much that Eva was in hopes she would relent, and then came straight
to me, very unhappy, and not in the least triumphant in her discovery.
You can guess what a dreadful afternoon we had, I don’t think any one
was more miserable than poor Charlotte, who stayed shut up in my room
all day, dreading the sight of any one, and expecting to be universally
called a traitor. The end was, that after much storming, Lord Kilcoran,
finding Eveleen determined, and anxious to save her the discredit of an
elopement, has agreed to receive Mr. Fielder, and they are to be married
from this house on the 6th of December, though what they are to live
upon no one can guess. The Kilcorans are very anxious to put the best
face on the matter possible, and have persuaded us, for the sake of
the family, to stay for the wedding; indeed, poor Lady Kilcoran is so
completely overcome, that I hardly like to leave her till this is over.
How unpleasant the state of things in the house is no one can imagine,
and very, very glad shall I be to get back to Hollywell and my Amy and
Charlie. Dearest Amy,
‘Your most affectionate.
‘L. EDMONSTONE.’
The news was at length told, and Philip was indeed thunder-struck at
this fresh consequence of his interference. It threatened at first to
overthrow his scarcely recovered spirits, and but for the presence of
his guests, it seemed as if it might have brought on a renewal of the
state from which they had restored him.
‘Yes,’ said Charles to Amy, when they talked it over alone, ‘It seems
as if good people could do wrong with less impunity than others. It is
rather like the saying about fools and angels. Light-minded people see
the sin, but not the repentance, so they imitate the one without being
capable of the other. Here are Philip and Laura finishing off like the
end of a novel, fortune and all, and setting a very bad example to the
world in general.’
‘As the world cannot see below the surface,’ said Amy, ‘how distressed
Laura, must be! You see, mamma does not say one word about her.’
Philip had not much peace till he had written to Mr. Thorndale, who
was going at once to Germany, not liking to return home to meet the
condolences. Mrs. Edmonstone had nearly the whole correspondence of the
family on her hands; for neither of her daughters liked to write, and
she gave the description of the various uncomfortable scenes that took
place. Lord de Courcy’s stern and enduring displeasure, and his father’s
fast subsiding violence; Lady Kilcoran’s distress, and the younger
girls’ excitement and amusement; but she said she thought the very
proper and serious way in which Charlotte viewed it, would keep it from
doing them much harm, provided, as was much to be feared, Lord Kilcoran
did not end by keeping the pair always at home, living upon him till Mr.
Fielder could get a situation. In fact, it was difficult to know what
other means there were of providing for them.
At last the wedding took place, and Mrs. Edmonstone wrote a letter,
divided between indignation at the foolish display that had attended it,
and satisfaction at being able at length to fix the day for the meeting
at Hollywell. No one could guess how she longed to be at home again, and
to be once more with Charlie.
Nor were Charles and Amabel less ready to go home, though they could
both truly say that they had much enjoyed their stay at Redclyffe.
Philip was to come with them, and it was privately agreed that he should
return to Redclyffe no more till he could bring Laura with him. Amabel
had talked of her sister to Mrs. Ashford, and done much to smooth the
way; and even on the last day or two, held a few consultations with
Philip, as to the arrangements that Laura would like. One thing,
however, she must ask for her own pleasure. ‘Philip,’ said she, ‘you
must let me have this piano.’
His answer was by look and gesture.
‘And I want very much to ask a question, Philip. Will you tell me which
is Sir Hugh’s picture?’
‘You have been sitting opposite to it every day at dinner.’
‘That!’ exclaimed Amy. ‘From what I heard, I fully expected to have
known Sir Hugh’s in a moment, and I often looked at that one, but I
never could see more likeness than there is in almost all the pictures
about the house.’
She went at once to study it again, and wondered more.
‘I have seen him sometimes look like it; but it is not at all the strong
likeness I expected.’
Philip stood silently gazing, and certainly the countenance he recalled,
pleading with him to desist from his wilfulness, and bending over him
in his sickness, was far unlike in expression to the fiery youth before
him. In a few moments more, Amabel had run up-stairs, and brought down
Mr. Shene’s portrait. There was proved to be more resemblance than
either of them had at first sight credited. The form of the forehead,
nose, and short upper lip were identical, so were the sharply-defined
black eyebrows, the colour of the eyes; and the way of standing in both
had a curious similarity; but the expression was so entirely different,
that strict comparison alone proved, that Guy’s animated, contemplative,
and most winning countenance, was in its original lineaments entirely
the same with that of his ancestor. Although Sir Hugh’s was then far
from unprepossessing, and bore as yet no trace of his unholy passions,
it bought to Amabel’s mind the shudder with which Guy had mentioned
his likeness to that picture, and seemed to show her the nature he had
tamed.
Philip, meanwhile, after one glance at Mr. Shene’s portrait, which he
had not before seen, had turned away, and stood leaning against the
window-frame. When Amy had finished her silent comparison, and was
going to take her treasure back, he looked up, and said, ‘Do you dislike
leaving that with me for a few minutes?’
‘Keep it as long as you like,’ said she, going at once, and she saw him
no more till nearly an hour after; when, as she was coming out of her
own room, he met her, and gave it into her hands, saying nothing except
a smothered ‘Thank you;’ but his eyelids were so swollen and heavy, that
Charles feared his head was bad again, while Amy was glad to perceive
that he had had the comfort of tears.
Every one was sorry to wish Lady Morville and her brother good-bye, only
consoling themselves with hoping that their sister might be like them;
and as to little Mary, the attention paid to her was so devoted and
universal, that her mamma thought it very well she should receive the
first ardour of it while she was too young to have her head turned.
They again slept a night in London, and in the morning Philip took
Charles for a drive through the places he had heard of, and was much
edified by actually beholding. They were safely at home the same
evening, and on the following, the Hollywell party was once more
complete, gathered round Charles’s sofa in a confusion of welcomes and
greetings.
Mrs. Edmonstone could hardly believe her eyes, so much had Charles’s
countenance lost its invalid look, and his movements were so much more
active; Amabel, too, though still white and thin, had a life in her eye
and an air of health most unlike her languor and depression.
Every one looked well and happy but Laura, and she had a worn, faded,
harassed aspect, which was not cheered even by Philip’s presence;
indeed, she seemed almost to shrink from speaking to him. She was the
only silent one of the party that evening, as they gathered round the
dinner or tea-table, or sat divided into threes or pairs, talking over
the subjects that would not do to be discussed in public. Charlotte
generally niched into Amy’s old corner by Charles, hearing about
Redclyffe, or telling about Ireland. Mrs. Edmonstone and Amy on the
opposite sides of the ottoman, their heads meeting over the central
cushion, talking in low, fond, inaudible tones; Mr. Edmonstone going in
and out of the room, and joining himself to one or other group, telling
and hearing news, and sometimes breaking up the pairs; and then Mrs.
Edmonstone came to congratulate Charles on Amy’s improved looks, or
Charlotte pressed up close to Amy to tell her about grandmamma. For
Charlotte could not talk about Eveleen, she had been so uncomfortable at
the part she had had to act, that all the commendation she received was
only like pain and shame, and her mother was by no means dissatisfied
that it should be so, since a degree of forwardness had been her chief
cause of anxiety in Charlotte; and it now appeared that without losing
her high spirit and uncompromising sense of right, her sixteenth year
was bringing with it feminine reserve.
Laura lingered late in Amabel’s room, and when her mother had wished
them good night, and left them together, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, Amy! I am
so glad to be come back to you. I have been so very miserable!’
‘But you see he is quite well,’ said Amy. ‘We think him looking better
than in the summer.’
‘O yes! Oh, Amy, what have you not done? If you could guess the relief
of hearing you were with him, after that suspense!’ But as if losing
that subject in one she was still more eager about, ‘What did he think
of me?’
‘My dear,’ said Amabel, ‘I don’t think I am the right person to tell you
that.’
‘You saw how it struck him when he heard of my share in it.’
‘Yours? Mamma never mentioned you.’
‘Always kind!’ said Laura. ‘Oh, Amy! what will you think of me when I
tell I knew poor Eva’s secret all the time? What could I do, when Eva
pleaded my own case? It was very different, but she would not see it,
and I felt as if I was guilty of all. Oh, how I envied Charlotte.’
‘Dear Laura, no wonder you were unhappy!’
‘Nothing hitherto has been equal to it! said Laura. ‘There was the
misery of his silence, and the anxiety that you, dearest, freed me from,
then no sooner was that over than this was confided to me. Think what I
felt when Eva put me in mind of a time when I argued in favour of
some such concealment in a novel! No, you can never guess what I went
through, knowing that he would think me weak, blameable, unworthy!’
‘Nay, he blames himself too much to blame you.’
‘No, that he must not do! It was my fault from the beginning. If I had
but gone at once to mamma!’
‘Oh, I am so glad!’ exclaimed Amy, suddenly.
‘Glad?’’
‘I mean,’ said Amy, looking down, ‘now you have said that, I am sure you
will be happier.’
‘Happier, now I feel and see how I have lowered myself even in his
sight?’ said Laura, drooping her head and hiding her face in her hands,
as she went on in so low a tone that Amy could hardly hear her. ‘I know
it all now. He loves me still, as he must whatever he has once taken,
into that deep, deep heart of his: he will always; but he cannot have
that honouring, trusting, confiding love that--you enjoyed and deserved,
Amy--that he would have had if I had cared first for what became me. If
I had only at first told mamma, he would not even have been blamed; he
would have been spared half this suffering and self-reproach; he would
have loved me more; Eva might not have been led astray, at least she
could not have laid it to my charge,--and I could lift up my head,’ she
finished, as she hung it almost to her knees.
Her sister raised the head, laid it on her own bosom, and kissed, the
cheeks and brow again and again. ‘Dearest, dearest Laura, I am so sorry
for you; but I am sure you must feel freer and happier now you know it
all, and see the truth.’
‘I don’t know!’ said Laura, sadly.
‘And at least you will be better able to comfort him.’
‘No, no, I shall only add to his self-reproach. He will see more plainly
what a wretched weak creature he fancied had firmness and discretion.
Oh, what a broken reed I have been to him!’
‘There is strength and comfort for us all to lean upon,’ said Amy. ‘But
you ought to go to bed. Shall I read to you, Laura? you are so tired, I
should like to come and read you to sleep.’
Laura was not given to concealments; that fatal one had been her only
insincerity, and she never thought of doing otherwise than telling the
whole of her conduct in Ireland to Philip. She sat alone with him the
next morning, explained all, and entreated his pardon, humiliating
herself so much, that he could not bear to hear her.
‘It was the fault of our whole lifetime, Laura,’ said he, recovering
himself, when a few agitated words had passed on either side. ‘I taught
you to take my dictum for law, and abused your trusty and perverted all
the best and most precious qualities. It is I who stand first to bear
the blame, and would that I could bear all the suffering! But as it is,
Laura, we must look to enduring the consequence all our lives, and give
each other what support we may.’
Laura could hardly brook his self-accusation, but she could no longer
argue the point; and there was far more peace and truth before them than
when she believed him infallible, and therefore justified herself for
all she had done in blind obedience to him.