It would be hard to describe Mrs. Edmonstone's emotion, as she preceded Guy to the dressing-room, and sat down, looking up to him as he stood in his old place by the fire. She thought he did not look well, though it might be only that the sun-burnt colour had given place to his natural fairness; his eyes, though bright as ever, did not dance and sparkle; a graver expression sat on his brow; and although he still looked very young, a change there certainly was, which made him man instead of boy--a look of having suffered, and conquered suffering. She felt even more motherly affection for him now than when he last stood there in the full tide of his first outburst of his love for her daughter, and her heart was almost too full for speech; but he seemed to be waiting for her, and at last she said,--'I am very glad to have you here again.'
He smiled a little, then said, 'May I tell you all about it?'
'Sit down here. I want very much to hear it. I am sure you have gone through 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 not feel 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 seen her, 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.
CHAPTER 26
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, with such a 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 t
o 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.'
The Heir of Redclyffe Page 39
