The Heir of Redclyffe

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  'Stop!' said Philip, gravely. 'Think before acting. I seriously advise you to have nothing to do with this man, at least personally. Let me see him, and learn what he wants.'

  'He wants me,' impatiently answered Guy. 'You are not his nephew.'

  'Thank heaven!' thought Philip. 'Do you imagine your relationship is the sole cause of his seeking you?'

  'I don't know--I don't care!' cried Guy, with vehemence. 'I will not listen to suspicions of my mother's brother.'

  'It is more than suspicion. Hear me calmly. I speak for your good. I know this man's influence was fatal to your father. I know he did all in his power to widen the breach with your grandfather.'

  'That was eighteen years ago,' said Guy, walking on, biting his lip in a fiery fit of impatience.

  'You will not hear. Remember, that his position and associates render him no fit companion for you. Nay, listen patiently. You cannot help the relationship. I would not have you do otherwise than assist him. Let him not complain of neglect, but be on your guard. He will either seriously injure you, or be a burden for life.'

  'I have heard you so far--I can hear no more,' said Guy, no longer restraining his impetuosity. 'He is my uncle, that I know, I care for nothing else. Position--nonsense! what has that to do with it? I will not be set against him.'

  He strode off; but in a few moments turned back, overtook Philip, said- -

  'Thank you for your advice. I beg your pardon for my hastiness. You mean kindly, but I must see my uncle.' And, without waiting for an answer, he was gone.

  In short space he was in the little parlour of the music-shop, shaking hands with his uncle, and exclaiming,--

  'I am so glad! I hoped it was you!'

  'It is very noble-hearted! I might have known it would be so with the son of my dearest sister and of my generous friend!' cried Mr. Dixon, with eagerness that had a theatrical air, though it was genuine feeling that filled his eyes with tears.

  'I saw your name last night' continued Guy. 'I would have tried to speak to you at once, but I was obliged to stay with Mrs, Edmonstone, as I was the only gentleman with her.'

  'Ah! I thought it possible you might not be able to follow the dictate of your own heart; but this is a fortunate conjuncture, in the absence of your guardian.'

  Guy recollected Philip's remonstrance, and it crossed him whether his guardian might be of the same mind; but he felt confident in having told all to Mrs. Edmonstone.

  'How did you know I was here?' he asked.

  'I learnt it in a most gratifying way. Mr. Redford, without knowing our connection--for on that I will always be silent--mentioned that the finest tenor he had ever known, in an amateur, belonged to his pupil, Sir Guy Morville. You can imagine my feelings at finding you so near, and learning that you had inherited your dear mother's talent and taste.'

  The conversation was long, for there was much to hear. Mr. Dixon had kept up a correspondence at long intervals with Markham, from whom he heard that his sister's child survived, and was kindly treated by his grandfather; and inquiring again on the death of old Sir Guy, learnt that he was gone to live with his guardian, whose name, and residence Markham had not thought fit to divulge. He had been much rejoiced to hear his name from the music-master, and he went on to tell how he had been misled by the name of Morville into addressing the captain, who had a good deal of general resemblance to Guy's father, a fine tall young man, of the same upright, proud deportment. He supposed he was the son of the Archdeacon, and remembering how strongly his own proceedings had been discountenanced at Stylehurst, had been much disconcerted, and deeming the encounter a bad omen, had used more caution in his advances to his nephew. It was from sincere affection that he sought his acquaintance, though very doubtful as to the reception he might meet, and was both delighted and surprised at such unembarrassed, open-hearted affection.

  The uncle and nephew were not made to understand each other. Sebastian Dixon was a man of little education, and when, in early youth, his talents had placed him high in his own line, he had led a careless, extravagant life. Though an evil friend, and fatal counsellor, he had been truly attached to Guy's father, and the secret engagement, and runaway marriage with his beautiful sister, had been the romance of his life, promoted by him with no selfish end. He was a proud and passionate man, and resenting Sir Guy's refusal to receive his sister as a daughter, almost as much as Sir Guy was incensed at the marriage, had led his brother-in-law to act in a manner which cut off the hope of reconciliation, and obliged Archdeacon Morville to give up his cause. He had gloried in supporting his sister and her husband, and enabling them to set the old baronet at defiance. But young Morville's territorial pride could not brook that he should be maintained, and especially that his child, the heir of Redclyffe, should be born while he was living at the expense of a musician. This feeling, aided by a yearning for home, and a secret love for his father, mastered his resentment; he took his resolution, quarrelled with Dixon, and carried off his wife, bent with desperation on forcing his father into receiving her.

  Sebastian had not surmounted his anger at this step when he learnt its fatal consequences. Ever since that time, nothing had prospered with him: he had married and sunk himself lower, and though he had an excellent engagement, the days were past when he was the fashion, and his gains and his triumphs were not what they had been. He had a long list of disappointments and jealousies with which to entertain Guy, who, on his side, though resolved to like him, and dreading to be too refined to be friends with his relations, could not feel as thoroughly pleased as he intended to have been.

  Music was, however, a subject on which they could meet with equal enthusiasm, and by means of this, together with the aid of his own imagination, Guy contrived to be very happy. He stayed with his uncle as long as he could, and promised to spend a day with him in London, on his way to Oxford, in October.

  The next morning, when Philip knew that Guy would be with his tutor, he walked to Hollywell, came straight up to his aunt's dressing-room, asked her to send Charlotte down to practise, and, seating himself opposite to her, began--

  'What do you mean to do about this unfortunate rencontre?'

  'Do you mean Guy and his uncle? He is very much pleased, poor boy! I like his entire freedom from false shame.'

  'A little true shame would be hardly misplaced about such a connection.'

  'It is not his fault, and I hope it will not be his misfortune,' said Mrs. Edmonstone.

  'That it will certainly be,' replied Philip, 'if we are not on our guard; and, indeed, if we are, there is little to be done with one so wilful. I might as well have interfered with the course of a whirlwind.'

  'No, no, Philip; he is too candid to be wilful.'

  'I cannot be of your opinion, when I have seen him rushing into this acquaintance in spite of the warnings he must have had here--to say nothing of myself.'

  'Nay, there I must defend him, though you will think me very unwise; I could not feel that I ought to withhold him from taking some notice of so near a relation.'

  Philip did think her so unwise, that he could only reply, gravely--

  'We must hope it may produce no evil effects.'

  'How?' she exclaimed, much alarmed. 'Have you heard anything against him?'

  'You remember, of course, that Guy's father was regularly the victim of this Dixon.'

  'Yes, yes; hut he has had enough to sober him. Do you know nothing more?' said Mrs. Edmonstone, growing nervously anxious lest she had been doing wrong in her husband's absence.

  'I have been inquiring about him from old Redford, and I should judge him to be a most dangerous companion; as, indeed, I could have told from his whole air, which is completely that of a roué.'

  'You have seen him, then?'

  'Yes. He paid me the compliment of taking me for Sir Guy, and of course made off in dismay when he discovered on whom he had fallen. I have seldom seen a less creditable-looking individual.'

  'But what did Mr. Redford say? Did he know of the c
onnection?'

  'No; I am happy to say he did not. The fellow has decency enough not to boast of that. Well, Redford did not know much of him personally: he said he had once been much thought of, and had considerable talent and execution, but taste changes, or he has lost something, so that, though he stands tolerably high in his profession, he is not a leader. So much for his musical reputation. As to his character, he is one of those people who are called no one's enemy but their own, exactly the introduction Guy has hitherto happily wanted to every sort of mischief.'

  'I think,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, trying to console herself, 'that Guy is too much afraid of small faults to be invited by larger evils. While he punishes himself for an idle word, he is not likely to go wrong in greater matters.'

  'Not at present.'

  'Is the man in debt or difficulties? Guy heard nothing of that, and I thought it a good sign.'

  'I don't suppose he is. He ought not, for he has a fixed salary, besides what he gets by playing at concerts when it is not the London season. The wasting money on a spendthrift relation would be a far less evil than what I apprehend.'

  'I wish I knew what to do! It is very unlucky that your uncle is from home.'

  'Very.'

  Mrs. Edmonstone was frightened by the sense of responsibility, and was only anxious to catch hold of something to direct her.

  'What would you have me do?' she asked, hopelessly.

  'Speak seriously to Guy. He must attend to you: he cannot fly out with a woman as he does with me. Show him the evils that must result from such an intimacy. If Dixon was in distress, I would not say a word, for he would be bound to assist him but as it is, the acquaintance can serve no purpose but degrading Guy, and showing him the way to evil. Above all, make a point of his giving up visiting him in London. That is the sure road to evil. A youth of his age, under the conduct of a worn-out roué, connected with the theatres! I can hardly imagine anything more mischievous.'

  'Yes, yes; I will speak to him,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, perfectly appalled.

  She promised, but she found the fulfilment difficult, in her dislike of vexing Guy, her fear of saying what was wrong, and a doubt whether the appearance of persecuting Mr. Dixon was not the very way to prevent Guy's own good sense from finding out his true character, so she waited, hoping Mr. Edmonstone might return before Guy went to Oxford, or that he might write decisively.

  Mrs. Edmonstone might have known her husband better than to expect him to write decisively when he had neither herself nor Philip at his elbow. The same post had brought him a letter from Guy, mentioning his meeting with his uncle, and frankly explaining his plans for London; another from Philip, calling on him to use all his authority to prevent this intercourse, and a third from his wife. Bewildered between them, he took them to his sister, who, being as puzzle-headed as himself, and only hearing his involved history of the affair, confused him still more; so he wrote to Philip, saying he was sorry the fellow had turned up, but he would guard against him. He told Guy he was sorry to say that his uncle used to be a sad scamp, and he must take care, or it would be his poor father's story over again; and to Mrs. Edmonstone he wrote that it was very odd that everything always did go wrong when he was away.

  He thought these letters a great achievement, but his wife's perplexity was not materially relieved.

  After considering a good while, she at length spoke to Guy; but it was not at a happy time, for Philip, despairing of her, had just taken on himself to remonstrate, and had angered him to the verge of an outbreak.

  Mrs. Edmonstone, as mildly as she could, urged on him that such intercourse could bring him little satisfaction, and might be very inconvenient; that his uncle was in no distress, and did not require assistance; and that it was too probable that in seeking him out he might meet with persons who might unsettle his principles,--in short, that he had much better give up the visit to London.

  'This is Philip's advice,' said Guy.

  'It is; but--'

  Guy looked impatient, and she paused.

  'You must forgive me,' he said, 'if I follow my own judgment. If Mr. Edmonstone chose to lay his commands on me, I suppose I must submit; but I cannot see that I am bound to obey Philip.'

  'Not to obey, certainly; but his advice--'

  'He is prejudiced and unjust,' said Guy.

  'I don't believe that my uncle would attempt to lead me into bad company; and surely you would not have me neglect or look coldly on one who was so much attached to my parents. If he is not a gentleman, and is looked down on by the world, it is not for his sister's son to make him conscious of it.'

  'I like your feelings, Guy; I can say nothing against it, but that I am much afraid your uncle is not highly principled.'

  'You have only Philip's account of him.'

  'You are resolved?'

  'Yes. I do not like not to take your advice, but I do believe this is my duty. I do not think my determination is made in self-will,' said Guy, thoughtfully; 'I cannot think that I ought to neglect my uncle, because I happen to have been born in a different station, which is all I have heard proved against him,' he added, smiling. 'You will forgive me, will you not, for not following your advice? for really and truly, if you will let me say so, I think you would not have given it if Philip had not been talking to you.'

  Mrs. Edmonstone confessed, with a smile, that perhaps it was so; but said she trusted much to Philip's knowledge of the world. Guy agreed to this; though still declaring Philip had no right to set him against his uncle, and there the discussion ended.

  Guy went to London. Philip thought him very wilful, and his aunt very weak; and Mr. Edmonstone, on coming home, said it could not be helped, and he wished to hear no more about the matter.

  CHAPTER 12

  Her playful smile, her buoyance wild,

  Bespeak the gentle, mirthful child;

  But in her forehead's broad expanse,

  Her chastened tones, her thoughtful glance,

  Is mingled, with the child's light glee,

  The modest maiden's dignity.

  One summer's day, two years after the ball and review, Mary Ross and her father were finishing their early dinner, when she said,--

  'If you don't want me this afternoon, papa, I think I shall walk to Hollywell. You know Eveleen de Courcy is there.'

  'No, I did not. What has brought her?'

  'As Charles expresses it, she has over-polked herself in London, and is sent here for quiet and country air. I want to call on her, and to ask Sir Guy to give me some idea as to the singing the children should practise for the school-feast?'

  'Then you think Sir Guy will come to the feast?'

  'I reckon on him to conceal all the deficiencies in the children's singing.'

  'He won't desert you, as he did Mrs. Brownlow?'

  '0 papa! you surely did not think him to blame in that affair?'

  'Honestly, Mary, if I thought about the matter at all, I thought it a pity he should go so much to the Brownlows.'

  'I believe I could tell you the history, if you thought it worth while; and though it may be gossip, I should like you to do justice to Sir Guy.'

  'Very well; though I don't think there is much danger of my doing otherwise. I only wondered he should become intimate there at all.'

  'I believe Mrs. Edmonstone thinks it right he should see as much of the world as possible, and not be always at home in their own set.'

  'Fair and proper.'

  'You know she has shown him all the people she could,--had Eveleen staying there, and the Miss Nortons, and hunted him out to parties, when he had rather have been at home.'

  'I thought he was fond of society. I remember your telling me how amused you were with his enjoyment of his first ball.'

  'Ah! he was two years younger then, and all was new. He seems to me too deep and sensitive not to find more pain than pleasure in commonplace society. I have sometimes seen that he cannot speak either lightly or harshly of what he disapproves, and people don't understand him.
I was once sitting next him, when there was some talking going on about an elopement; he did not laugh, looked almost distressed, and at last said in a very low voice, to me, "I wish people would not laugh about such things."'

  'He is an extraordinary mixture of gaiety of heart, and seriousness.'

  'Well, when Mrs. Brownlow had her nieces with her, and was giving those musical parties, his voice made him valuable; and Mrs. Edmonstone told him he ought to go to them. I believe he liked it at first, but he found there was no end to it; it took up a great deal of time, and was a style of thing altogether that was not desirable. Mrs Edmonstone thought at first his reluctance was only shyness and stay-at-home nonsense, that ought to be overcome; but when she had been there, and saw how Mrs. Brownlow beset him, and the unpleasant fuss they made about his singing, she quite came round to his mind, and was very sorry she had exposed him to so much that was disagreeable.'

  'Well, Mary, I am glad to hear your account. My impression arose from something Philip Morville said.'

  'Captain Morville never can approve of anything Sir Guy does! It is not like Charles.'

  'How improved Charles Edmonstone is. He has lost that spirit of repining and sarcasm, and lives as if he had an object.'

  'Yes; he employs himself now, and teaches Amy to do the same. You know, after the governess went, we were afraid little Amy would never do anything but wait on Charles, and idle in her pretty gentle way; but when he turned to better things so did she, and her mind has been growing all this time. Perhaps you don't see it, for she has not lost her likeness to a kitten, and looks all demure silence with the elders, but she takes in what the wise say.'

  'She is a very good little thing; and I dare say will not be the worse for growing up slowly.'

  'Those two sisters are specimens of fast and slow growth. Laura has always seemed to be so much more than one year older than Amy, especially of late. She is more like five-and-twenty than twenty. I wonder if she overworks herself. But how we have lingered over our dinner!'