‘Sit down here. I want very much to hear it. I am sure you have gonethrough a good deal.’I have, indeed,’ said he, simply and gravely; and there was a silence,while she was certain that, whatever he might have endured, he did notfeel it to have been in vain.
‘But it is at an end,’ said she. ‘I have scarcely seen Mr. Edmonstone, but he tells me he is perfectly satisfied.’
‘He is so kind as to be satisfied, though you know I still cannot explain about the large sum I asked him for.’
‘We will trust you,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling, ‘but I am very anxious to hear how you came to an understanding.’
Guy went over the story in detail, and very much affected she was to hear how entirely unfounded had been the suspicion, and how thankful he was for Mr. Edmonstone’s forgiveness.
‘You had rather to forgive us!’ said she.
‘You forget how ill I behaved,’ said Guy, colouring. ‘If you knew the madness of those first moments of provocation, you would think that the penance of a lifetime, instead of only one winter, would scarce have been sufficient.’
‘You would not say, as Charles does, that the suspicion justified your anger?’
‘No, indeed!’ He paused, and spoke again. ‘Thank Heaven, it did not last long; but the insight it gave me into the unsubdued evil about me was a fearful thing.’
‘But you conquered it. They were the unguarded exclamations of the first shock. Your whole conduct since, especially the interview with Philip, has shown that your anger has not been abiding, and that you have learnt to subdue it.’
‘It could not abide, for there was no just cause of offence. Of course such a dreadful outburst warned me to be on my guard; and you know the very sight of Philip is a warning that there is danger in that way! I mean,’ said Guy, becoming conscious that he had been very severe, ‘I mean that I know of old that I am apt to be worried by his manner, and that ought to make me doubly cautious.’
Mrs. Edmonstone was struck by the soberer manner in which he spoke of his faults. He was as ready to take full blame, but without the vehemence which he used to expend in raving at himself instead of at the offender. It seemed as if he had brought himself to the tone he used to desire so earnestly.
‘I am very glad to be able to explain all to Philip,’ he said.
‘I will write as soon as possible. Oh, Mrs. Edmonstone! if you knew what it is to be brought back to such unhoped-for happiness, to sit here once more, with you,’—his voice trembled, and the tears were in her eyes,—‘to have seenher, to have all overlooked, and return to all I hoped last year. I want to look at you all, to believe that it is true,’ he finished, smiling.
‘You both behaved very well this evening,’ said she, laughing, because she could do so better than anything else at that moment.
‘You both!’ murmured Guy to himself.
‘Ah! little Amy has been very good this winter.’
He answered her with a beautiful expression of his eyes, was silent a little while, and suddenly exclaimed, in a candid, expostulating tone, ‘But now, seriously, don’t you think it a very bad thing for her?’
‘My dear Guy,’ said she, scarcely repressing a disposition to laugh, ‘I told you last summer what I thought of it, and you must settle the rest with Amy to-morrow. I hear the drawing-room bell, which is a sign I must send you to bed. Good night!’
‘Good night!’ repeated Guy, as he held her hand. ‘It is so long since I have had any one to wish me good night! Good night, mamma!’
She pressed his hand, then as he ran down to lend a helping hand in carrying Charles, she, the tears in her eyes, crossed the passage to see how it was with her little Amy, and to set her at rest for the night. Amy’s candle was out, and she was in bed, lying full in the light of the Easter moon, which poured in glorious whiteness through her window. She started up as the door opened. ‘Oh, mamma! how kind of you to come!’
‘I can only stay a moment, my dear; your papa is coming up; but I must just tell you that I have been having such a nice talk with dear Guy. He has behaved beautifully, and papa is quite satisfied. Now, darling, I hope you will not lie awake all night, or you won’t be fit to talk to him to-morrow.’
Amy sat up in bed, and put her arms round her mother’s neck. ‘Then he is happy again,’ she whispered. ‘I should like to hear all.’
‘He shall tell you himself to-morrow, my dear. Now, good night! you have been a very good child. Now, go to sleep, my dear one.’
Amy lay down obediently. ‘Thank you for coming to tell me, dear mamma,’ she said. ‘I am very glad; good night.’
She shut her eyes, and there was something in the sweet, obedient, placid look of her face, as the white moonlight shone upon it, that made her mother pause and gaze again with the feeling, only tenderer, left by a beautiful poem. Amy looked up to see why she delayed; she gave her another kiss, and left her in the moonlight.
Little Amy’s instinct was to believe the best and do as she was bidden, and there was a quietness and confidence in the tone of her mind which gave a sort of serenity of its own even to suspense. A thankful, happy sensation that all was well, mamma said so, and Guy was there, had taken possession of her, and she did not agitate herself to know how or why, for mamma, had told her to put herself to sleep; so she thought of all the most thanksgiving verses of her store of poetry, and before the moon had passed away from her window, Amabel Edmonstone was wrapped in a sleep dreamless and tranquil as an infant’s.
Hence, bashful cunning,And prompt me, plain and holy innocence.I am your wife if you will marry me.—TEMPEST
Amabel awoke to such a sense of relief and repose that she scarcely liked to ask herself the cause, lest it might ruffle her complete peace. Those words ‘all right,’ seemed to be enough to assure her that the cloud was gone.
Her mother came in, told her one or two of the main facts, and took her down under her wing, only stopping by the way for a greeting to Charles, who could not rise till after breakfast. He held her fast, and gazed up in her face, but she coloured so deeply, cast down her eyes, and looked so meek and submissive, that he let her go, and said nothing.
The breakfast party were for the most part quiet, silent, and happy. Even Charlotte was hushed by the subdued feeling of the rest, and Mr. Edmonstone’s hilarity, though replied to in turn by each, failed to wake them into mirth. Guy ran up and down-stairs continually, to wait upon Charles; and thus the conversation was always interrupted as fast as it began, so that the only fact that came out was the cause of the lateness of their arrival yesterday. Mr. Edmonstone had taken it for granted that Guy, like Philip, would watch for the right time, and warn him, while Guy, being excessively impatient, had been so much afraid of letting himself fidget, as to have suffered the right moment to pass, and then borne all the blame.
‘How you must have wanted to play the Harmonious Blacksmith,’ said Charlotte.
‘I caught myself going through the motions twice,’ said Guy.
Mrs. Edmonstone said to herself that he might contest the palm of temper with Amy even; the difference being, that hers was naturally sweet, his a hasty one, so governed that the result was the same. When breakfast was over, as they were rising, Guy made two steps towards Amabel, at whom he had hitherto scarcely looked, and said, very low, in his straightforward way: ‘Can I speak to you a little while?’
Amy’s face glowed as she moved towards him, and her mother said something about the drawing-room, where the next moment she found herself. She did not use any little restless arts to play with her embarrassment; she did not torment the flowers or the chimney ornaments, nor even her own rings, she stood with her hands folded and her head a little bent down, like a pendant blossom, ready to listen to whatever might be said to her.
He did not speak at first, but moved uneasily about. At last he came nearer, and began speaking fast and nervously.
‘Amabel, I want you to consider—you really ought to think whether this is not a very bad thing for you.’
The drooping head was raised, the downcast lids lifted up, and the blue eyes fixed on him with a look at once confiding and wondering. He proceeded—
‘I have brought you nothing but unhappiness already. So far as you have taken any interest in me, it could cause you only pain, and the more I think of it, the more unfit it seems that one so formed for light, and joy, and innocent mirth, should have anything to do with the darkness that is round me. Think well of it. I feel as if I had done a selfish thing by you, and now, you know, you are not bound. You are quite free! No one knows anything about it, or if they did, the blame would rest entirely with me. I would take care it should. So, Amy, think, and think well, before you risk your happiness.’
‘As to that,’ replied Amy, in a soft, low voice, withsucha look of truth in her clear eyes, ‘I must care for whatever happens to you, and I had rather it was with you, than without you,’ she said, casting them down again.
‘My Amy!—my own!—my Verena!’—and he held fast one of her hands, as they sat together on the sofa—‘I had a feeling that so it might be through the very worst, yet I can hardly believe it now.’
‘Guy,’ said Amy, looking up, with the gentle resolution that had lately grown on her, ‘you must not take me for more than I am worth, and I should like to tell you fairly. I did not speak last time, because it was all so strange and so delightful, and I had no time to think, because I was so confused. But that is a long time ago, and this has been a very sad winter, and I have thought a great deal. I know, and you know, too, that I am a foolish little thing; I have been silly little Amy always; you and Charlie have helped me to all the sense I have, and I don’t think I could ever be a clever, strong-minded woman, such as one admires.’
‘Heaven forbid!’ ejaculated Guy; moved, perhaps, by a certain remembrance of St. Mildred’s.
‘But,’ continued Amy, ‘I believe I do really wish to be good, and I know you have helped me to wish it much more, and I have been trying to learn to bear things, and so’—out came something, very like a sunny smile, though some tears followed—‘so if you do like such a silly little thing, it can’t be helped, and we will try to make the best of her. Only don’t say any more about my being happier without you, for one thing I am very sure of, Guy, I had rather bear anything with you, than know you were bearing it alone. I am only afraid of being foolish and weak, and making things worse for you.’
‘So much worse! But still,’ he added, ‘speak as you may, my Amy, I cannot, must not, feel that I have a right to think of you as my own, till you have heard all. You ought to know what my temper is before you risk yourself in its power. Amy, my first thought towards Philip was nothing short of murder.’
She raised her eyes, and saw how far entirely he meant what he said.
‘The first—not the second,’ she murmured.
‘Yes, the second—the third. There was a moment when I could have given my soul for my revenge!’
‘Only a moment!’
‘Only a moment, thank Heaven! and I have not done quite so badly since. I hope I have not suffered quite in vain; but if that shock could overthrow all my wonted guards, it might, though I pray Heaven it may not, it might happen again.’
‘I think you conquered yourself then, and that you will again,’ said Amy.
‘And suppose I was ever to be mad enough to be angry with you?’
Amy smiled outright here. ‘Of course, I should deserve it; but I think the trouble would be the comforting you afterwards. Mamma said’—she added, after a long silence, during which Guy’s feeling would not let him speak—‘mamma said, and I think, that you are much safer and better with such a quick temper as yours, because you are always struggling and fighting with it, on the real true religious ground, than a person more even tempered by nature, but not so much in earnest in doing right.’
‘Yes, if I did not believe myself to be in earnest about that, I could never dare to speak to you at all.’
‘We will help each other,’ said Amy; ‘you have always helped me, long before we knew we cared for each other!’
‘And, Amy, if you knew how the thought of you helped me last winter, even when I thought I had forfeited you for ever.’
Their talk only ceased when, at one o’clock, Mrs. Edmonstone, who had pronounced in the dressing-room that three hours was enough for them at once, came in, and asked Guy to go and help to carry Charles down-stairs.
He went, and Amy nestled up to her mother, raising her face to be kissed.
‘It is very nice!’ she whispered; and then arranged her brother’s sofa, as she heard his progress down-stairs beginning. He was so light and thin as to be very easily carried, and was brought in between Guy and one of the servants. When he was settled on the sofa, he began thus,—‘There was a grand opportunity lost last winter. I was continually rehearsing the scene, and thinking what waste it was to go through such a variety of torture without the dignity of danger. If I could but have got up ever so small an alarm, I would have conjured my father to send for Guy, entreated pathetically that the reconciliation might be effected, and have drawn my last breath clasping their hands, thus! The curtain falls!’
He made a feint of joining their hands, put his head back, and shut his eyes with an air and a grace that put Charlotte into an ecstasy, and made even Amy laugh, as she quitted the room, blushing.
‘But if it had been your last breath,’ said Charlotte, ‘you would not have been much the wiser.’
‘I would have come to life again in time to enjoy the “coup de theatre”. I had some thoughts of trying an overdose of opium; but I thought Dr. Mayerne would have found me out. I tell you, because it is fair I should have the credit; for, Guy, if you knew what she was to me all the winter, you would perceive my superhuman generosity in not receiving you as my greatest enemy.’
‘I shall soon cease to be surprised at any superhuman generosity,’ said Guy. ‘But how thin you are, Charlie; you are a very feather to carry; I had no notion it had been such a severe business.’
‘Most uncommon!’ said Charles, shaking his head, with a mock solemnity.
‘It was the worst of all,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘six weeks of constant pain.’
‘How very sorry Philip must have been!’ exclaimed Guy.
‘Philip?’ said Charlotte.
‘Why, was it not owing to him? Surely, your father told me so. Did not he let you fall on the stairs?’
‘My dear father!’ exclaimed Charles, laughing; ‘every disaster that happens for the next twelvemonth will be imputed to Philip.’
‘How was it, then?’ said Guy.
‘The fact was this,’ said Charles; ‘it was in the thick of the persecution of you, and I was obliged to let Philip drag me upstairs, because I was in a hurry. He took the opportunity of giving me some impertinent advice which I could not stand. I let go his arm, forgetting what a dependent mortal I am, and down I should assuredly have gone, if he had not caught me, and carried me off, as a fox does a goose, so it was his fault, as one may say, in a moral, though not in a physical sense.’
‘Then,’ said his mother, ‘you do think your illness was owing to that accident?’
‘I suppose the damage was brewing, and that the shake brought it into an active state. There’s a medical opinion for you!’
‘Well, I never knew what you thought of it before,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.
‘Why, when I had a condor to pick on Guy’s account with Philip, I was not going to pick a crow on my own,’ said Charles. ‘Oh! is luncheon ready; and you all going? I never see anybody now. I want the story of the shipwreck, though, of course, Ben What’s-his-name was the hero, and Sir Guy Morville not a bit of it.’
Laura wanted to walk to East Hill, and the other young people agreed to go thither, too.
‘It will be nice to go to church there to-day’ said Amy, in a half-whisper, heard only by Guy, and answered by a look that showed how well he understood and sympathized.
‘Another thing,’ said Amy, colouring a good deal; ‘shall you mind my telling Mary? I behaved so oddly last night, and she was so kind to me that I think I ought.’
Mary had seen enough last night to be very curious to-day, though hardly expecting her curiosity to be gratified. However, as she was putting on her bonnet for church, she looked out of her window, and saw the four coming across the fields from Hollywell. Guy and Amy did not walk into the village arm-in-arm; but, as they came under the church porch, Guy, unseen by all held out his hand, sought hers, and, for one moment, pressed it fervently. Amy knew he felt this like their betrothal.
After the service, they stood talking with Mr. Ross and Mary, for some little time. Amy held apart, and Mary saw how it was. As they were about to turn homewards, Amy said quickly, ‘Come and walk a little way home with me.’
She went on with Mary before the rest, and when out of sight of them all, said, ‘Mary!’ and then stopped short.
‘I guess something, Amy,’ said Mary.
‘Don’t tell any one but Mr. Ross.’
‘Then I have guessed right. My dear little Amy, I am very glad! So that was the reason you flew out of the room last evening, and looked so bright and glowing!’
‘It was so good of you to ask no questions!’
‘I don’t think I need ask any now, Amy; for I see in your face how right and happy it all is.’
‘I can’t tell you all, Mary, but I must one thing,—that the whole terrible story arose from his helping a person in distress. I like you to know that.’
‘Papa was always sure that he had not been to blame,’ said Mary.
‘Yes; so Charlie told me, and that is the reason I wanted you to know.’
‘Then, Amy, something of this had begun last summer?’
‘Yes; but not as it is now. I did not half know what it was then.’
‘Poor dear little Amy,’ said Mary; ‘what a very sad winter it must have been for you!’
‘Oh, very!’ said Amy; ‘but it was worse for him, because he was quite alone; and here every one was so kind to me. Mamma and Laura, and poor Charlie, through all his illness and pain, he was so very kind. And do you know, Mary, now it is all over, I am very glad of this dismal time; for I think that it has taught me how to bear things better.’
She looked very happy. Yet it struck Mary that it was strange to hear that the first thought of a newly-betrothed maiden was how to brace herself in endurance. She wondered, however, whether it was not a more truly happy and safe frame than that of most girls, looking forward to a life of unclouded happiness, such as could never be realized. At least, so it struck Mary, though she owned to herself that her experience of lovers was limited.
Mary walked with Amy almost to the borders of Hollywell garden; and when the rest came up with them, though no word passed, there was a great deal of congratulation in her warm shake of Guy’s hand, and no lack of reply in his proud smile and reddening cheek. Charlotte could not help turning and going back with her a little way, to say, ‘Are not you delighted, Mary? Is not Amy the dearest thing in the world? And you don’t know, for it is a secret, and I know it, how very noble Guy has been, while they would suspect him.’
‘I am very, very glad, indeed! It is everything delightful.’
‘I never was so happy in my life,’ said Charlotte; ‘nor Charlie, either. Only think of having Guy for our brother; and he is going to send for Bustle to-morrow.’
Mary laughed, and parted with Charlotte, speculating on the cause of Laura’s graver looks. Were they caused by the fear of losing her sister, or by a want of confidence in Guy?
That evening, how happy was the party at Hollywell, when Charles put Guy through a cross-examination on the shipwreck, from the first puff of wind to the last drop of rain; and Guy submitted very patiently, since he was allowed the solace of praising his Redclyffe fishermen.
Indeed, this time was full of tranquil, serene happiness. It was like the lovely weather only to be met with in the spring, and then but rarely, when the sky is cloudless, and intensely blue,—the sunshine one glow of clearness without burning,—not a breath of wind checks the silent growth of the expanding buds of light exquisite green. Such days as these shone on Guy and Amabel, looking little to the future, or if they did so at all, with a grave, peaceful awe, reposing in the present, and resuming old habits,—singing, reading, gardening, walking as of old, and that intercourse with each other that was so much more than ever before.
It was more, but it was not quite the same; for Guy was a very chivalrous lover; the polish and courtesy that sat so well on his frank, truthful manners, were even more remarkable in his courtship. His ways with Amy had less of easy familiarity than in the time of their brother-and-sister-like intimacy, so that a stranger might have imagined her wooed, not won. It was as if he hardly dared to believe that she could really be his own, and treated her with a sort of reverential love and gentleness, while she looked up to him with ever-increasing honour. She was better able to understand him now than in her more childish days last summer; and she did not merely see, as before, that she was looking at the upper surface of a mystery. He had, at the same time, grown in character, his excitability and over-sensitiveness seemed to have been smoothed away, and to have given place to a calmness of tone, that was by no means impassibility.
When alone with Amy, he was generally very grave, often silent and meditative, or else their talk was deep and serious; and even with the family he was less merry and more thoughtful than of old, though very bright and animated, and showing full, free affection to them all, as entirely accepted and owned as one of them.
So, indeed, he was. Mr. Edmonstone, with his intense delight in lovers, patronized them, and made commonplace jokes, which they soon learnt to bear without much discomposure. Mrs. Edmonstone was all that her constant appellation of ‘mamma’ betokened, delighting in Guy’s having learnt to call her so. Charles enjoyed the restoration of his friend, the sight of Amy’s happiness, and the victory over Philip, and was growing better every day. Charlotte was supremely happy, watching the first love affair ever conducted in her sight, and little less so in the return of Bustle, who resumed his old habits as regularly as if he had only left Hollywell yesterday.
Laura alone was unhappy. She did not understand her own feelings; but sad at heart she was; with only one who could sympathize with her, and he far away, and the current of feeling setting against him. She could not conceal her depression, and was obliged to allow it to be attributed to the grief that one sister must feel in parting with another; and as her compassion for her little Amy, coupled with her dread of her latent jealousy, made her particularly tender and affectionate, it gave even more probability to the supposition. This made Guy, who felt as if he was committing a robbery on them all, particularly kind to her, as if he wished to atone for the injury of taking away her sister; and his kindness gave her additional pain at entertaining such hard thoughts of him.
How false she felt when she was pitied! and how she hated the congratulations, of which she had the full share! She thought, however, that she should be able to rejoice when she had heard Philip’s opinion; and how delightful it would be for him to declare himself satisfied with Guy’s exculpation.
I forgave thee all the blame,I could not forgive the praise.—TENNYSON
‘If ever there was a meddlesome coxcomb on this earth!’ Such was the exclamation that greeted the ears of Guy as he supported Charles into the breakfast-room; and, at the same time, Mr. Edmonstone tossed a letter into Guy’s plate, saying,—
‘There’s something for you to read.’
Guy began; his lips were tightly pressed together; his brows made one black line across his forehead, and his eye sparkled even through his bent-down eyelashes; but this lasted only a few moments; the forehead smoothed, again, and there was a kind of deliberate restraint and force upon himself, which had so much power, that no one spoke till he had finished, folded it up with a sort of extra care, and returned it, only saying,
‘You should not show one such letters, Mr. Edmonstone.’
‘Does not it beat everything?’ cried Mr. Edmonstone. ‘If that is not impertinence, I should like to know what is! But he has played my Lord Paramount rather too long, as I can tell him! I ask his consent, forsooth! Probation, indeed! You might marry her to-morrow, and welcome. There, give it to mamma. See if she does not say the same. Mere spite and malice all along.’
Poor Laura! would no one refute such cruel injustice? Yes, Guy spoke, eagerly,—
‘No no; that it never was. He was quite right under his belief.’
‘Don’t tell me! Not a word in his favour will I hear!’ stormed on Mr. Edmonstone. ‘Mere envy and ill-will.’
‘I always told him so,’ said Charles. ‘Pure malignity!’
‘Nonsense, Charlie!’ said Guy, sharply; ‘there is no such thing about him.’
‘Come, Guy; I can’t stand this,’ said Mr. Edmonstone. ‘I won’t have him defended; I never thought to be so deceived; but you all worshipped the boy as if every word that came out of his mouth was Gospel truth, and you’ve set him up till he would not condescend to take an advice of his own father, who little thought what an upstart sprig he was rearing; but I tell him he has come to the wrong shop for domineering—eh, mamma?’
‘Well!’ cried Mrs. Edmonstone, who had read till near the end with tolerable equanimity; this really is too bad!’
‘Mamma and all!’ thought poor Laura, while her mother continued,—‘It is wilful prejudice, to say the least,—I never could have believed him capable of it!’
Charles next had the letter, and was commenting on it in a style of mingled sarcasm and fury; while Laura longed to see it justify itself, as she was sure it would.
‘Read it, all of you—every bit,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, ‘that you may see this paragon of yours!’
‘I had rather not,’ said Amy, shrinking as it came towards her.
‘I should like you to do so, if you don’t dislike it very much,’ said Guy.
She read in silence; and then came the turn of Laura, who marvelled at the general injustice as she read.
‘CORK, April 8th.‘MY DEAR UNCLE,—I am much obliged to you for the communication of yourintention with regard to Amabel; but, indeed, I must say I am a gooddeal surprised that you should have so hastily resolved on so importanta step, and have been satisfied with so incomplete an explanation ofcircumstances which appeared to you, as well as to myself, to show thatGuy’s character was yet quite unsettled, and his conduct such as tocreate considerable apprehension that he was habitually extremelyimprudent, to say the least of it, in the management of his own affairs.How much more unfit, therefore, to have the happiness of anotherintrusted to him? I believe—indeed, I understood you to have declaredto me that you were resolved never to allow the engagement to berenewed, unless he should, with the deference which is only due toyou as his guardian, consent to clear up the mystery with which hehas thought fit to invest all his pecuniary transactions, and this, itappears, he refuses, as he persists in denying all explanation of hisdemand for that large sum of money. As to the cheque, which certainlywas applied to discreditable uses, though I will not suffer myself tosuppose that Guy was in collusion with his uncle, yet it is not atall improbable that Dixon, not being a very scrupulous person, may, onhearing of the difficulties in which his nephew has been placed, comeforward to relieve him from his embarrassment, in the hope of furtherprofit, by thus establishing a claim on his gratitude. In fact, thisproof of secretly renewed intercourse with Dixon rather tends toincrease the presumption that there is something wrong. I am not writingthis in the expectation that the connection should be entirely brokenoff, for that, indeed, would be out of the question as things stand atpresent, but for my little cousin’s sake, as well as his own, I entreatof you to pause. They are both extremely young—so young, that if therewas no other ground, many persons would think it advisable to wait a fewyears; and why not wait until the time fixed by his grandfather forhis coming into possession of his property? If the character of hisattachment to Amabel is firm and true, the probation may be of infiniteservice to him, as keeping before him, during the most critical periodof his life, a powerful motive for restraining the natural impetuosityof his disposition; while, on the other hand, if this should proveto have been a mere passing fancy for the first young lady into whosesociety he has been thrown on terms of easy familiar intercourse, youwill then have the satisfaction of reflecting that your care and cautionhave preserved your daughter from a life of misery. My opinion hasnever altered respecting him, that he is brave and generous, with goodfeelings and impulses, manners peculiarly attractive, and altogether acharacter calculated to inspire affection, but impetuous and unsteady,easily led into temptation, yet obstinate in reserve, and his temper ofunchecked violence. I wish him happiness of every kind; and, as you wellknow, would, do my utmost for his welfare; but my affection for yourwhole family, and my own conscientious conviction, make me feel it myduty to offer this remonstrance, which I hope will be regarded as by nomeans the result of any ill-will, but simply of a sincere desire for thegood of all parties, such as can only be evinced by plain speaking.‘Yours affectionately,‘P. MORVILLE.’
All the time Laura was reading, Guy was defending Philip against the exaggerated abuse that Mr. Edmonstone and Charles were pouring out, till at last, Mrs. Edmonstone, getting out of patience, said,—
‘My dear Guy, if we did not know you so well, we should almost accuse you of affectation.’
‘Then I shall go away,’ said Guy, laughing as he rose. ‘Can you come out with me?’ said he, in a lower tone, leaning over the back of Amy’s chair.
‘No; wait a bit,’ interposed Mr. Edmonstone; ‘don’t take her out, or you won’t be to be found, anywhere, and I want to speak to you before I write my letter, and go to the Union Meeting. I want to tell Master Philip, on the spot, that the day is fixed, and we snap our fingers at him and his probation. Wait till twenty-five! I dare say!’
At ‘I want to speak to you,’ the ladies had made the first move towards departure, but they were not out of hearing at the conclusion. Guy looked after Amy, but she would not look round, and Charles lay twisting Bustle’s curls round his fingers, and smiling to himself at the manner in which the letter was working by contraries. The overthrow of Philip’s influence was a great triumph for him, apart from the way in which it affected his friend and his sister.
Mr. Edmonstone was disappointed that Guy would not set about fixing the day, in time for him to announce it in a letter to be written in the course of an hour. Guy said he had not begun on the subject with Amy, and it would never do to hurry her. Indeed, it was a new light to himself that Mr. Edmonstone would like it to take place so soon.
‘Pray, when did you think it was to be?’ said Mr. Edmonstone. ‘Upon my word, I never in all my days saw a lover like you, Guy!’
‘I was too happy to think about the future; besides, I did not know whether you had sufficient confidence in me.’
‘Confidence, nonsense! I tell you if I had a dozen daughters, I would trust them all to you.’
Guy smiled, and was infected by Charles’s burst of laughing, but Mr. Edmonstone went on unheeding—‘I have the most absolute confidence in you! I am going to write to Philip this minute, to tell him he has played three-tailed Bashaw rather too long. I shall tell him it is to be very soon, at any rate; and that if he wishes to see how I value his pragmatical advice, he may come and dance at the wedding. I declare, your mamma and that colonel of his have perfectly spoilt him with their flattery! I knew what would come of it; you all would make a prodigy of him, till he is so puffed up, that he entirely forgets who he is!’
‘Not I’ said Charles; ‘that can’t be laid to my door.’
‘But I’ll write him such a letter this instant as shall make him remember what he is, and show him who he has to deal with. Eh, Charlie?’
‘Don’t you think,’ said Guy, preparing to go, ‘that it might be better to wait a day or two, till we see our way clearer, and are a little cooler?’
‘I tell you, Guy, there is no one that puts me out of patience now, but yourself. You are as bad as Philip himself. Cool? I am coolness itself, all but what’s proper spirit for a man to show when his family is affronted, and himself dictated to, by a meddling young jackanapes. I’ll serve him out properly!’
A message called him away. Guy stood looking perplexed and sorrowful.
‘Never mind,’ said Charles, ‘I’ll take care the letter is moderate. Besides, it is only Philip, and he knows that letter-writing is not his forte.’
‘I am afraid things will be said in irritation, which you will both regret. There are justice and reason in the letter.’
‘There shall be more in the answer, as you will see.’
‘No, I will not see. It is Mr. Edmonstone’s concern, not mine. I am the last person who should have anything to do with it.’
‘Just what the individual in question would not have said.’
‘Would you do one thing to oblige me, Charlie?’
‘Anything but not speaking my mind to, or of, the captain.’
‘That is the very thing, unluckily. Try to get the answer put off till to-morrow, and that will give time to look at this letter candidly.’
‘All the candour in the world will not make me think otherwise than that he is disappointed at being no longer able to make us the puppets of his malevolence. Don’t answer, or if you do, tell me what you say in favour of that delicate insinuation of his.’
Guy made a step towards the window, and a step back again. ‘’Tis not fair to ask such questions,’ he replied, after a moment. ‘It is throwing oil on the fire. I was trying to forget it. He neither knows my uncle nor the circumstances.’
‘Well, I am glad there is a point on which you can’t even pretend to stand up for him, or I should have thought you crazed with Quixotism. But I am keeping you when you want to be off to Amy. Never mind Mr. Ready-to-halt; I shall wait till my father comes back. If you want the letter put off you had better give some hopes of—Oh! he is gone, and disinterested advice it is of mine, for what is to become of me without Amy remains to be proved. Laura, poor thing, looks like Patience on a monument. I wonder whether Philip’s disgrace has anything to do with it. Hum! If mamma’s old idea was right, the captain has been more like moth and candle than consistent with his prudence, unless he thought it “a toute epreuve”. I wonder what came to pass last autumn, when I was ill, and mamma’s head full of me. He may not intend it, and she may not know it, but I would by no means answer for Cupid’s being guiltless of that harassed look she has had ever since that ball-going summer. Oh! there go that pretty study, Amy and her true knight. As to Guy, he is more incomprehensible than ever; yet there is no avoiding obeying him, on the principle on which that child in the “Moorland cottage” said she should obey Don Quixote.’
So when his father came in, Charles wiled him into deferring the letter till the next day, by giving him an indistinct hope that some notion when the marriage would be, might be arrived at by that time. He consented the more readily, because he was in haste to investigate a complaint that had just been made of the union doctor; but his last words to his wife and son before he went, were—‘Of course, they must marry directly, there is nothing on earth to wait for. Live at Redclyffe alone? Not to be thought of. No, I’ll see little Amy my Lady Morville, before Philip goes abroad, if only to show him I am not a man to be dictated to.’
Mrs. Edmonstone sighed; but when he was gone, she agreed with Charles that there was nothing to wait for, and that it would be better for Guy to take his wife at once with him, when he settled at Redclyffe. So it must be whenever Amy could make up her mind to it; and thereupon they made plans for future meetings, Charles announcing that the Prince of the Black Isles would become locomotive, and Charlotte forming grand designs upon Shag Island.
In the meantime, Guy and Amy were walking in the path through the wood, where he began: ‘I would not have asked you to do anything so unpleasant as reading that letter, but I thought you ought to consider of it.’
‘It was just like himself! How could he?’ said Amy, indignantly.
‘I wonder whether he will ever see his own harshness?’ said Guy. ‘It is very strange, that with all his excellence and real kindness, there should be some distortion in his view of all that concerns me. I cannot understand it.’
‘You must let me call it prejudice, Guy, in spite of your protest. It is a relief to say something against him.’
‘Amy, don’t be venomous!’ said Guy, in a playful tone of reproach.
‘Yes; but you know it is notmewhom he has been abusing.’
‘Well,’ said Guy, musingly, ‘I suppose it is right there should be this cloud, or it would be too bright for earth. It has been one of my chief wishes to have things straight with Philip, ever since the time he stayed at Redclyffe as a boy. I saw his superiority then; but it fretted me, and I never could make a companion of him. Ever since, I have looked to his approval as one of the best things to be won. It shows his ascendancy of character; yet, do what I will, the mist has gone on thickening between us; and with reason, for I have never been able to give him the confidence he required, and his conduct about my uncle has so tried my patience, that I never have been quite sure whether I ought to avoid him or not.’
‘And now you are the only person who will speak for him. I don’t wonder papa is provoked with you,’ said she, pretending to be wilful. ‘I only hope you don’t want to make me do the same. I could bear anything better than his old saying about your attractive manners and good impulses, and his opinion that has never altered. O Guy, he is the most provoking person in all the world. Don’t try to make me admire him, nor be sorry for him.’
‘Not when you remember how he was looked on here? and how, without doing anything worthy of blame, nay, from his acting unsparingly, as he thought right, every one has turned against him? even mamma, who used to be so fond of him?’
‘Not Laura.’
‘No, not Laura, and I am thankful to her for it; for all this makes me feel as if I had supplanted him.’
‘Yes, yes, yes, it is like you; but don’t ask me to feel that yet,’ said Amy, with tears in her eyes,’ or I shall be obliged to tell you what you won’t like to hear, about his tone of triumph that terrible time last year. It was so very different, I don’t think I could ever forgive him, if it had not made me so miserable too.’
Guy pressed her arm. ‘Yes; but he thought himself right. He meant to do the kindest thing by you,’ said he, so entirely without effort, that no one could doubt it came straight from his heart. ‘So he thinks still, Amy; there is fairness, justice, good sense in his letter, and we must not blind our eyes to it, though there is injustice, at least, harshness. I did fail egregiously in my first trial.’
‘Fail!’
‘In temper.’
‘Oh!’
‘And, Amy, I wanted to ask what you think about the four years he speaks of. Do you think, as he says, my habits might be more fixed, and altogether you might have more confidence?’
‘I don’t look on you quite as he does now,’ said Amy, with a very pretty smile. ‘Do you think his opinion of you will ever alter?’
‘But what do you think? Is there not some reason in what he says?’
‘The only use I can see is, that perhaps I should be wiser at twenty-four, and fitter to take care of such a great house; but then you have been always helping me to grow wiser, and I am not much afraid but that you will be patient with me. Indeed, Guy, I don’t know whether it is a thing I ought to say,’ she added, blushing, ‘but I think it would be dismal for you to go and live all alone at Redclyffe.’
‘Honestly, Amy,’ replied he, after a little pause, ‘if you feel so, and your father approves, I don’t think it will be better to wait. I know your presence is a safeguard, and if the right motives did not suffice to keep me straight, and I was only apparently so from hopes of you, why then I should be so utterly good for nothing at the bottom, if not on the surface, that you had better have nothing to say to me.’
Amy laughed incredulously.
‘That being settled,’ proceeded Guy, ‘did you hear what your father said as you left the breakfast-room?’
She coloured all over, and there was silence. ‘What did you answer?’ said she, at length.
‘I said, whatever happened, you must not be taken by surprise in having to decide quickly. Do you wish to have time to think? I’ll go in and leave you to consider, if you like.’
‘I only want to know what you wish,’ said Amy, not parting with his arm.
‘I had rather you did just as suits you best. Of course, you know what my wish must be.’
Amy walked on a little way in silence. ‘Very well,’ said she, presently, ‘I think you and mamma had better settle it. The worst’—she had tears in her eyes—‘the going away—mamma—Charlie—all that will be as bad at one time as at another.’ The tears flowed faster. ‘It had better be as you all like best.’
‘O Amy! I wonder at myself for daring to ask you to exchange your bright cheerful home for my gloomy old house.’
‘No, your home,’ said Amy, softly.
‘I used to wonder why it was called gloomy; but it will be so no more when you are there. Yet there is a shadow hanging over it, which makes it sometimes seem too strange that you and it should be brought together.’
‘I have read somewhere that there is no real gloom but what people raise for themselves.’
‘True. Gloom is in sin, not sorrow. Yes, there would be no comfort if I were not sure that if aught of grief or pain should come to you through me, it will not, cannot really hurt you, my Amy.’
‘No, unless by my own fault, and you will help me to meet it. Hark! was that a nightingale?’
‘Yes, the first! How beautiful! There—don’t you see it? Look on that hazel, you may see its throat moving. Well!’ when they had listened for a long time,—‘after all, that creature and the sea will hardly let one speak of gloom, even in this world, to say nothing of other things.
‘The sea! I am glad I have never seen it, because now you will show it to me for the first time.’
‘You will never, can never imagine it, Amy! and he sung,—