The Heir of Redclyffe

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  The sun was just up, his beams gilded the crests of the leaping waves, and the spray danced up, white and gay, round the tall rocks, whose shadow was reflected in deep green, broken by the ever-moving swell. The Shag and its attendant rocks, and the broken vessel, were bathed in the clear morning light; the sky was of a beautiful blue, with magnificent masses of dark cloud, the edges, where touched by the sunbeams, of a pearly white; and across the bay, tracing behind them glittering streams of light, came up the two boats with their freight of rescued lives. Martin's boat was the first to touch the landing- place.

  'All saved,' he said; 'all owing to him,' pointing back to Sir Guy.

  There was no time for questions; the wan, drenched sailors had to be helped on shore, and the boat hauled up out of the way. In the meantime, Guy, as he steered in past the quay, smiled and nodded to Mr. Ashford and Markham, and renewed the call, 'All safe!' Mr. Ashford thought that he had never seen anything brighter than his face--the eyes radiant in the morning sun, the damp hair hanging round it, and life, energy, and promptitude in every feature and movement.

  The boat came in, the sailors were assisted out, partly by their rescuers, partly by the spectators. Guy stood up, and, with one foot on the seat, supported on his knee and against his arm a little boy, round whom his great-coat was wrapped.

  'Here, Jem!' he shouted, to his rejected volunteer, who had been very active in bringing in the boat, 'here's something for you to do. This poor little fellow has got a broken arm. Will you ask your mother to take him in? She's the best nurse in the parish. And send up for Mr. Gregson.'

  Jem received the boy as tenderly as he was given; and, with one bound, Guy was by the side of his two friends. Mr. Ashford shook hands with heartfelt gratulation; Markham exclaimed,--

  'There, Sir Guy, after the old fashion! Never was man so mad in this world! I've done talking! You'll never be content till you have got your death. As if no one could do anything without you.'

  'Was it you who carried out the line on the rock?' said Mr. Ashford.

  'Ben Robinson and I. I had often been there, after sea anemones and weeds, and I had a rope round me, so don't be angry, Markham.'

  'I have no more to say,' answered Markham, almost surly. 'I might as well talk to a sea-gull at once. As if you had any right to throw away your life!'

  'I enjoyed it too much to have anything to say for myself,' said Guy; 'besides, we must see after these poor men. There were two or three nearly drowned. Is no one gone for Mr. Gregson?'

  Mr. Gregson, the doctor, was already present, and no one who had any authority could do anything but attend to the disposal of the shipwrecked crew. Mr. Ashford went one way, Markham another, Guy a third; but, between one cottage and another, Mr. Ashford learnt some particulars. The crew had been found on a flat rock and the fishermen had at first thought all their perils in vain, for it was impossible to bring the boats up, on account of the rocks, which ran out in a long reef. Sir Guy, who knew the place, steered to the sheltered spot where he had been used to make fast his own little boat, and undertook to make his way from thence to the rock where the crew had taken refuge, carrying a rope to serve as a kind of hand-rail, when fastened from one rock to the other. Ben insisted on sharing his peril, and they had crept along the slippery, broken reefs, lashed by the surge, for such a distance, that the fishermen shuddered as they spoke of the danger of being torn off by the force of the waves, and dashed against the rocks. Nothing else could have saved the crew. They had hardly accomplished the passage through the rising tide, even with the aid of the rope and the guidance of Sir Guy and Ben, and, before the boats had gone half a mile on their return, the surge was tumbling furiously over the stones where they had been found.

  The sailors were safely disposed of, in bed, or by the fireside, the fishers vying in services to them. Mr. Ashford went to the cottage of Charity Ledbury, Jem's mother, to inquire for the boy with the broken arm. As he entered the empty kitchen, the opposite door of the stairs was opened, and Guy appeared, stepping softly, and speaking low.

  'Poor little fellow!' he said; 'he is just going to sleep. He bore it famously!'

  'The setting his arm?'

  'Yes. He was quite sensible, and very patient, and that old Charity Ledbury is a capital old woman. She and Jem are delighted to have him, and will nurse him excellently. How are all the others? Has that poor man come to his senses?'

  'Yes. I saw him safe in bed at old Robinson's. The captain is at the Browns'.'

  'I wonder what time of day it is?'

  'Past eight. Ah! there is the bell beginning. I was thinking of going to tell Master Ray we are not too much excited to remember church-going this morning; but I am glad he has found it out only ten minutes too late. I must make haste. Good-bye!'

  'May not I come, too, or am I too strange a figure?' said Guy, looking at his dress, thrown on in haste, and saturated with sea-water.

  'May you?' said Mr. Ashford, smiling. 'Is it wise, with all your wet things?'

  'I am not given to colds,' answered Guy, and they walked on quickly for some minutes; after which he said, in a low voice and hurried manner,-- 'would you make some mention of it in the Thanksgiving?'

  'Of course I will' said Mr. Ashford, with much emotion. 'The danger must have been great.'

  'It was,' said Guy, as if the strong feeling would show itself. 'It was most merciful. That little boat felt like a toy at the will of the winds and waves, till one recollected who held the storm in His hand.'

  He spoke very simply, as if he could not help it, with his eye fixed on the clear eastern sky, and with a tone of grave awe and thankfulness which greatly struck Mr. Ashford, from the complete absence of self- consciousness, or from any attempt either to magnify or depreciate his sense of the danger.

  'You thought the storm a more dangerous time than your expedition on the rock?'

  'It was not. The fishermen, who were used to such things, did not think much of it; but I am glad to have been out on such a night, if only for the magnificent sensation it gives to realize one's own powerlessness and His might. As for the rock, there was something to do to look to one's footing, and cling on; no time to think.'

  'It was a desperate thing!'

  'Not so bad as it looked. One step at a time is all one wants, you know, and that there always was. But what a fine fellow Ben Robinson is! He behaved like a regular hero--it was the thorough contempt and love of danger one reads of. There must be a great deal of good in him, if one only knew how to get hold of it.'

  'Look there!' was Mr. Ashford's answer, as he turned his head at the church wicket; and, at a short distance behind, Guy saw Ben himself walking up the path, with his thankful, happy father, a sight that had not been seen for months, nay, for years.

  'Ay,' he said, 'such a night as this, and such a good old man as the father, could not fail to bring out all the good in a man.'

  'Yes,' thought Mr. Ashford, 'such a night, under such a leader! The sight of so much courage based on that foundation is what may best touch and save that man.'

  After church, Guy walked fast away; Mr. Ashford went home, made a long breakfast, having the whole story to tell, and was on to the scene of action again, where he found the master, quite restored, and was presently joined by Markham. Of Sir Guy, there was no news, except that Jem Ledbury said he had looked in after church to know how the cabin boy was going on, and the master, understanding that he had been the leader in the rescue, was very anxious to thank him, and walked up to the house with Markham and Mr. Ashford.

  Markham conducted them straight to the library, the door of which was open. He crossed the room, smiled, and made a sign to Mr. Ashford, who looked in some surprise and amusement. It has been already said that the room was so spacious that the inhabited part looked like a little encampment by the fire, though the round table was large, and the green leather sofa and arm chair were cumbrous.

  However, old Sir Guy's arm-chair was never used by his grandson; Markham might sit there, and Bustle
did sometimes, but Guy always used one of the unpretending, unluxurious chairs, which were the staple of the room. This, however, was vacant, and on the table before it stood the remains of breakfast, a loaf reduced to half its dimensions, an empty plate and coffee-cup. The fire was burnt down to a single log, and on the sofa, on all the various books with which it was strewed, lay Guy, in anything but a comfortable position, his head on a great dictionary, fairly overcome with sleep, his very thick, black eyelashes resting on his fresh, bright cheek, and the relaxation of the grave expression of his features making him look even younger than he really was. He was so sound asleep that it was not till some movement of Markham's that he awoke, and started up, exclaiming,--

  'What a horrid shame! I am very sorry!'

  'Sorry! what for?' said Markham. 'I am glad, at any rate, you have been wise enough to change your things, and eat some breakfast.'

  'I meant to have done so much,' said Guy; 'but sea-wind makes one so sleepy!' Then, perceiving the captain, he came forward, hoping he was quite recovered.

  The captain stood mystified, for he could not believe this slim youth could be the Sir Guy of whose name he had heard so much, and, after answering the inquiry, he began,--

  'If I could have the honour of seeing Sir Guy--'

  'Well?' said Guy.

  'I beg your pardon, sir!' said the captain, while they all laughed, 'I did not guess you could be so young a gentleman. I am sure, sir, 'tis what any man might be proud of having done, and--I never saw anything like it!' he added, with a fresh start, 'and it will do you honour everywhere. All our lives are owing to you, sir.'

  Guy did not cut him short, though very glad when it was over. He felt he should not, in the captain's place, like to have his thanks shortened, and besides, if ever there was happiness or exultation, it was in the glistening eyes of old Markham, the first time he had ever been able to be justly proud of one of the family, whom he loved with so much faithfulness and devotion.

  CHAPTER 24

  Is there a word, or jest, or game,

  But time encrusteth round

  With sad associate thoughts the same?

  ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

  Among the persons who spent a forlorn autumn was Mr. Ross, though his troubles were not quite of the same description as those of his young parishioners. He missed his daughter very much; all his household affairs got out of order; the school-girls were naughty, and neither he, nor Miss Edmonstone, nor the mistress, could discover the culprits; their inquiries produced nothing but a wild confusion of mutual accusations, where the truth was undistinguishable. The cook never could find anything to make broth of, Mr. Ross could, never lay his hands on the books he wanted for himself or anybody else; and, lastly, none of his shirts ever had their buttons on.

  Mary, meanwhile, had to remain through a whole course of measles, then to greet the arrival of a new nephew, and to attend his christening: but she had made a vow that she would be at home by Christmas, and she kept it.

  Mr. Ross had the satisfaction of fetching her home from the station the day before Christmas Eve, and of seeing her opposite to him, on her own side of the table, in the evening, putting on the buttons, and considering it an especial favour and kindness, for which to be for ever grateful, that he had written all his Christmas sermons beforehand, so as to have a whole evening clear before her. He was never a great letter-writer, and Mary had a great deal to hear, for all that had come to her were the main facts, with very few details.

  'I have had very few letters, even from Hollywell,' said she. 'I suppose it is on account of Charles's illness. You think him really better?'

  'Yes, much better. I forgot to tell you, you are wanted for their Christmas party to-morrow night.'

  'Oh! he is well enough for them not to put it off! Is he able to be out of bed?'

  'No, he lies perfectly flat, and looks very thin. It has been a very severe illness. I don't think I ever knew him suffer so much; but, at the same time, I never knew him behave so well, or show so much patience, and consideration for other people, I was the more surprised, because at first he seemed to have relapsed into all the ways he thought he had shaken off; he was so irritable and fretful, that poor Mrs. Edmonstone looked worn out; but it seems to have been only the beginning of the illness; it was very different after he was laid up.'

  'Has he had you to see him?'

  'Yes, he asked for it, which he never did before, and Amabel reads to him every morning. There is certainly much more that is satisfactory about those young Edmonstones than there once seemed reason to expect.'

  'And now tell me about Sir Guy. What is the matter? Why does he not come home this winter!'

  'I cannot tell you the rights of it, Mary. Mr. Edmonstone is very much offended about something he is reported to have said, and suspects him of having been in mischief at St. Mildred's; but I am not at all persuaded that it is not one of Mr. Edmonstone's affronts.'

  'Where is he?'

  'At Redclyffe. I have a letter from him which I am going to answer to- night. I shall tell the Edmonstones about it, for I cannot believe that, if he had been guilty of anything very wrong, his mind would be occupied in this manner;' and he gave Mary the letter.

  'Oh, no!' exclaimed Mary, as she read. 'I am sure he cannot be in any mischief. What an admirable person he is! I am very sorry this cloud has arisen! I was thinking last summer how happy they all were together.'

  'Either this or Charles's illness has cast a gloom over the whole house. The girls are both grown much graver.'

  'Amy graver?' said Mary, quickly.

  'I think so. At least she did not seem to cheer up as I should have expected when her brother grew better. She looks as if she had been nursing him too closely, and yet I see her walking a good deal.'

  'Poor little Amy!' said Mary, and she asked no more questions, but was anxious to make her own observations.

  She did not see the Edmonstones till the next evening, as the day was wet, and she only received a little note telling her that one carriage would be sent to fetch her and Mr. Ross. The whole of the family, except Charles, were in the drawing-room, but Mary looked chiefly at Amy. She was in white, with holly in her hair, and did not look sorrowful; but she was paler and thinner than last summer, and though she spoke, smiled, and laughed when she ought, it was without the gay, childish freedom of former times. She was a small, pale, quiet girl now, not a merry, caressing kitten. Mary recollected what she had been in the wood last summer, and was sure it was more than Charles's illness that had altered her; yet still Amy had not Laura's harassed look.

  Mary had not much talk with Amy, for it was a large party, with a good many young ladies and children, and Amy had a great deal of work in the way of amusing them. She had a wearied look, and was evidently exerting herself to the utmost.

  'You look tired,' said Mary, kindly.

  'No, it is only stupidity,' said Amy, smiling rather sadly. 'We can't be entertaining without Charlie.'

  'It has been a melancholy winter,' began Mary, but she was surprised, for Amy's face and neck coloured in a moment; then, recovering herself, with some hesitation, she said,--

  'Oh! but Charlie is much better, and that is a great comfort. I am glad you are come home, Mary.'

  'We are going to have some magic music,' was said at the other end of the room. 'Who will play?'

  'Little Amy!' said Mr. Edmonstone. 'Where is she? She always does it to admiration. Amy, come and be a performer.'

  Amy rose, and came forward, but the colour had flushed into her cheeks again, and the recollection occurred to Mary, that her fame as a performer, in that way, arose from the very amusing manner in which she and Sir Guy had conducted the game last year. At the same moment her mother met her, and whispered,--

  'Had you rather not, my dear?'

  'I can do it, mamma, thank you--never mind.'

  'I should like to send you up to Charlie--he has been so long alone.'

  'Oh! thank you, dear mamma,' with a look of reli
ef.

  'Here is Charlotte wild to be a musician,' said Mrs. Edmonstone. 'Perhaps you will see how she can manage; for I think Charles must want a visit from his little nurse.'

  Amy moved quietly away, and entered Charles's room, full of warm gratitude for the kindness which was always seeking how to spare her.

  Charles was asleep, and throwing a shawl round her, she sat down in the dim light of the lamp, relieved by the stillness, only broken by now and then a louder note of the music down-stairs. It was very comfortable, after all that buzz of talk, and the jokes that seemed so nonsensical and tiresome. There were but two people who could manage to make a party entertaining, and that was the reason it was so different last year. Then Amy wondered if she was the only person who felt sick at heart and dreary; but she only wondered for a moment--she murmured half aloud to herself, 'I said I never would think of him except at my prayers! Here I am doing it again, and on Christmas night. I won't hide my eyes and moan over my broken reed; for Christmas is come, and the circles of song are widening round! Glory! good will, peace on earth! How he sang it last year, the last thing, when the people were gone, before we went up to bed. But I am breaking my resolution again. I must do something.'

  She took up a book of sacred poetry, and began to learn a piece which she already nearly knew; but the light was bad, and it was dreamy work; and probably she was half asleep, for her thoughts wandered off to Sintram and the castle on the Mondenfelsen, which seemed to her like what she had pictured the Redclyffe crags, and the castle itself was connected in her imagination with the deep, echoing porch, while Guy's own voice seemed to be chanting--

  Who lives forlorn, On God's own word doth rest; His path is bright With heavenly light, His lot among the blest.