The Heir of Redclyffe by Charlotte M. Yonge (page 5)

‘Excellently. Here is its name. See how neatly Charlie has printed it, Mary. Is it not odd, that he prints so well when he writes so badly?’

‘”The Seven Sisters.” There, fair sisterhood, grow and thrive, till I come to transplant you in the autumn. Are there any more?’

‘No, that is the last. Now, Mary, let us come to mamma.’

Guy waited to clear the path of the numerous trailing briery branches, and the others walked on, Amy telling how sorry they were to lose Guy’s vacation, but that he thought he could not give time enough to his studies here, and had settled, at Oxford, to make one of a reading- party, under the tutorship of his friend, Mr. Wellwood.

‘Where do they go?’

‘It is not settled. Guy wished it to be the sea-side; but Philip has been recommending a farmhouse in Stylehurst parish, rather nearer St. Mildred’s Wells than Stylehurst, but quite out in the moor, and an immense way from both.’

‘Do you think it will be the place?’

‘Yes; Guy thinks it would suit Mr. Wellwood, because he has friends at St. Mildred’s, so he gave his vote for it. He expects to hear how it is settled to-day or to-morrow.’

Coming out on the lawn, they found the three ladies sitting under the acacia, with their books and work. Laura did, indeed, look older than her real age, as much above twenty as Amy looked under nineteen. She was prettier than ever; her complexion exquisite in delicacy, her fine figure and the perfect outline of her features more developed; but the change from girl to woman had passed over her, and set its stamp on the anxious blue eye, and almost oppressed brow. Mary thought it would be hard to define where was that difference. It was not want of bloom, for of that Laura had more than any of the others, fresh, healthy, and bright, while Amy was always rather pale, and Lady Eveleen was positively wan and faded by London and late hours; nor was it loss of animation, for Laura talked and laughed with interest and eagerness; nor was it thought, for little Amy, when at rest, wore a meditative, pensive countenance; but there was something either added or taken away, which made it appear that the serenity and carelessness of early youth had fled from her, and the air of the cares of life had come over her.

Mary told her plans,–Church service at four, followed by a tea- drinking in the fields; tea in the garden for the company, and play for the school children and all who liked to join them. Every one likes such festivals, which have the recommendation of permitting all to do as they please, bringing friends together in perfect ease and freedom, with an object that raises them above the rank of mere gatherings for the pleasure of rich neighbours.

Mrs. Edmonstone gladly made the engagement and Lady Eveleen promised to be quite well, and to teach the children all manner of new games, though she greatly despised the dullness of English children, and had many droll stories of the stupidity of Laura’s pupils, communicated to her, with perhaps a little exaggeration, by Charles, and still further embellished by herself, for the purpose of exciting Charlotte’s indignation.

Mary proceeded to her consultation about the singing, and was conducted by Guy and Amy to the piano, and when her ears could not be indoctrinated by their best efforts, they more than half engaged to walk to East-hill, and have a conversation with the new school-master, whom Mary pitied for having fallen on people so unable to appreciate his musical training as herself and her father. The whole party walked back with her as far as the shade lasted; and at the end of the next field she turned, saw them standing round the stile, thought what happy people they were, and then resumed her wonder whither Laura’s youthfulness had flown.

The situation of Philip and Laura had not changed. His regiment had never been at any great distance from Hollywell, and he often came, venturing more as Laura learnt to see him with less trepidation. He seldom or never was alone with her; but his influence was as strong as ever, and look, word, and gesture, which she alone could understand, told her what she was to him, and revealed his thoughts. To him she was devoted, all her doings were with a view to please him, and deserve his affection; he was her world, and sole object. Indeed, she was sometimes startled by perceiving that tenderly as she loved her own family, all were subordinate to him. She had long since known the true name of her feelings for him; she could not tell when or how the certainty had come, but she was conscious that it was love that they had acknowledged for one another and that she only lived in the light of his love. Still she did not realize the evil of concealment; it was so deep a sensation of her innermost heart, that she never could imagine revealing it to any living creature, and she had besides so surrendered her judgment to her idol, that no thought could ever cross her that he had enjoined what was wrong. Her heart and soul were his alone, and she left the future to him without an independent desire or reflection. All the embarrassments and discomforts which her secret occasioned her were met willingly for his sake, and these were not a few, though time had given her more self-command, or, perhaps, more properly speaking, had hardened her.

She always had a dread of tete-a-tetes and conversations over novels, and these were apt to be unavoidable when Eveleen was at Hollywell. The twilight wanderings on the terrace were a daily habit, and Eveleen almost always paired with her. On this evening in particular, Laura was made very uncomfortable by Eveleen’s declaring that it was positively impossible and unnatural that the good heroine of some novel should have concealed her engagement from her parents. Laura could not help saying that there might be many excuses; then afraid that she was exciting suspicion, changed the subject in great haste, and tried to make Eveleen come indoors, telling her she would tire herself to death, and vexed by her cousin’s protestations that the fresh cool air did her good. Besides, Eveleen was looking with attentive eyes at another pair who were slowly walking up and down the shady walk that bordered the grass-plot, and now and then standing still to enjoy the subdued silence of the summer evening, and the few distant sounds that marked the perfect lull.

‘How calm–how beautiful!’ murmured Amabel.

‘It only wants the low solemn surge and ripple of the tide, and its dash on the rocks,’ said Guy. ‘If ever there was music, it is there; but it makes one think what the ear must be that can take in the whole of those harmonics.’

‘How I should like to hear it!’

‘And see it. 0 Amy! to show you the sunny sea,–the sense of breadth and vastness in that pale clear horizon line, and the infinite number of fields of light between you and it,–and the free feelings as you stand on some high crag, the wind blowing in your face across half the globe, and the waves dashing far below! I am growing quite thirsty for the sea.’

‘You know, papa said something about your taking your reading-party to Redclyffe.’

‘True, but I don’t think Markham would like it, and it would put old Mrs. Drew into no end of a fuss.’

‘Not like to have you?’

‘0 yes, I should be all very well; but if they heard I was bringing three or four men with me, they would think them regular wild beasts. They would be in an awful fright. Besides, it is so long since I have been at home, that I don’t altogether fancy going there till I settle there for good.’

‘Ah! it will be sad going there at first.’

‘And it has not been my duty yet.’

‘But you will be glad when you get there?’

‘Sha’n’t I? I wonder if any one has been to shoot the rabbits on the shag rock. They must have quite overrun it by this time. But I don’t like the notion of the first day. There is not only the great change, but a stranger at the vicarage.’

‘Do you know anything about the new clergyman? I believe Mrs. Ashford is a connection of Lady Thorndale’s?’

‘Yes; Thorndale calls them pattern people, and I have no doubt they will do great good in the parish. I am sure we want some enlightenment, for we are a most primitive race, and something beyond Jenny Robinson’s dame school would do us no harm.’

Here Mr. Edmonstone called from the window that they must come in.

Mrs. Edmonstone thought deeply that night. She had not forgotten her notion that Eveleen was attracted by Guy’s manners, and had been curious to see what would happen when Eveleen was sent to Hollywell for country air.

She had a very good opinion of Lady Eveleen. Since the former visit, she had shown more spirit of improvement, and laid aside many little follies; she had put herself under Laura’s guidance, and tamed down into what gave the promise of a sensible woman, more than anything that had hitherto been observed in her; and little addicted to match-making as Mrs. Edmonstone was, she could not help thinking that Eva was almost worthy of her dear Guy (she never could expect to find anyone she should think quite worthy of him, he was too like one of her own children for that), and on the other hand, how delighted Lord and Lady Kilcoran would be. It was a very pretty castle in the air; but in the midst of it, the notion suddenly darted into Mrs. Edmonstone’s head, that while she was thinking of it, it was Amy, not Eveleen, who was constantly with Guy. Reading and music, roses, botany, and walks on the terrace! She looked back, and it was still the same. Last Easter vacation, how they used to study the stars in the evening, to linger in the greenhouse in the morning nursing the geraniums, and to practise singing over the school-room piano; how, in a long walk, they always paired together; and how they seemed to share every pursuit or pleasure.

Now Mrs. Edmonstone was extremely fond of Guy, and trusted him entirely; but she thought she ought to consider how far this should be allowed. Feeling that he ought to see more of the world, she had sent him as much as she could into society, but it had only made him cling closer to home. Still he was but twenty, it was only a country neighbourhood, and there was much more for him to see before he could fairly be supposed to know his own mind. She knew he would act honourably; but she had a horror of letting him entangle himself with her daughter before he was fairly able to judge of his own feelings. Or, if this was only behaving with a brother’s freedom and confidence, Mrs. Edmonstone felt it was not safe for her poor little Amy, who might learn so to depend on him as to miss him grievously when this intimacy ceased, as it must when he settled at his own home. It would be right, while it was still time, to make her remember that they were not brother and sister, and by checking their present happy, careless, confidential intercourse, to save her from the chill which seemed to have been cast on Laura. Mrs. Edmonstone was the more anxious, because she deeply regretted not having been sufficiently watchful in Laura’s case, and perhaps she felt an unacknowledged conviction that if there was real love on Guy’s part, it would not be hurt by a little reserve on Amy’s. Yet to have to speak to her little innocent daughter on such a matter disturbed her so much, that she could hardly have set about it, if Amy had not, at that very moment, knocked at her door.

‘My dear, what has kept you up so late?’

‘We have been sitting in Eveleen’s room, mamma, hearing about her London life; and then we began to settle our plans for to-morrow, and I came to ask what you think of them. You know Guy has promised to go and hear the East-hill singing, and we were proposing, if you did not mind it, to take the pony-carriage and the donkey, and go in the morning to East-hill, have luncheon, and get Mary to go with us to the top of the great down, where we have never been. Guy has been wanting us, for a long time past, to go and see the view, and saying there is a track quite smooth enough to drive Charlie to the top.’

Amy wondered at her mother’s look of hesitation. In fact, the scheme was so accordant with their usual habits that it was impossible to find any objection; yet it all hinged on Guy, and the appointment at East- hill might lead to a great many more.

‘Do you wish us to do anything else, mamma? We don’t care about it.’

‘No, my dear,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘I see no reason against it. But- -‘ and she felt as if she was making a desperate plunge, ‘there is something I want to say to you.’

Amy stood ready to hear, but Mrs. Edmonstone paused. Another effort, and she spoke:-

‘Amy, my dear, I don’t wish to find fault, but I thought of advising you to take care. About Guy–‘

The very brilliant pink which instantly overspread Amy’s face made her mother think her warning more expedient.

‘You have been spending a great deal of time with him of late, very sensibly and pleasantly, I know; I don’t blame you at all, my dear, so you need not look distressed. I only want you to be careful. You know, though we call him cousin, he is scarcely a relation at all.’

‘0 mamma, don’t go on,’ said poor little Amy, hurriedly; ‘indeed I am very sorry!’

For Amy understood that it was imputed to her that she had been forward and unmaidenly. Mrs. Edmonstone saw her extreme distress, and, grieved at the pain she had inflicted, tried to reassure her as much as might be safe.

‘Indeed, my dear, you have done nothing amiss. I only intended to tell you to be cautious for fear you should get into a way of going on which might not look well. Don’t make any great difference, I only meant that there should not be quite so much singing and gardening alone with him, or walking in the garden in the evening. You can manage to draw back a little, so as to keep more with me or with Laura, and I think that will be the best way.’

Every word, no matter what, increased the burning of poor Amy’s cheeks. A broad accusation of flirting would have been less distressing to many girls than this mild and delicate warning was to one of such shrinking modesty and maidenly feeling. She had a sort of consciousness that she enjoyed partaking in his pursuits, and this made her sense of confusion and shame overwhelming. What had she been thoughtlessly doing? She could not speak, she could not look. Her mother put her arm round her, and Amy hid her head on her shoulder, and held her fast. Mrs. Edmonstone kissed and caressed the little fluttering bird, then saying, ‘Good night, my own dear child,’ unloosed her embrace.

‘Good night, dear mamma,’ whispered Amy. ‘I am very sorry.’

‘You need not be sorry, my dear, only be careful. Good night.’ And it would be hard to say whether the mother or the daughter had the hottest cheeks.

Poor little Amy! what was her dismay as she asked herself, again and again, what she had been doing and what she was to do? The last was plain,–she knew what was right, and do it she must. There would be an end of much that was pleasant, and a fresh glow came over her as she owned how very, very pleasant; but if it was not quite the thing,–if mamma did not approve, so it must be. True, all her doings received their zest from Guy,–her heart bounded at the very sound of his whistle, she always heard his words through all the din of a whole party,–nothing was complete without him, nothing good without his without his approval,–but so much the more shame for her. It was a kind of seeking him which was of all things the most shocking. So there should be an end of it,–never mind the rest! Amy knelt down, and prayed that she might keep her resolution.

She did not know how much of her severity towards herself was learned from the example that had been two years before her. Nor did she think whether the seeking had been mutual; she imagined it all her own doing, and did not guess that she would give pain to Guy by withdrawing herself from him.

The morning gave vigour to her resolution, and when Laura came to ask what mamma thought of their project, Amy looked confused–said she did not know–she believed it would not do. But just then in came her mother, to say she had been considering of the expedition, and meant to join it herself. Amy understood, blushed, and was silently grateful.

When Laura wanted to alter her demeanour towards Guy, being perfectly cool, and not in the least conscious, she had acted with great judgment, seen exactly what to do, and what to leave undone, so as to keep up appearances. But it was not so with Amy. She was afraid of herself, and was in extremes. She would not come down till the last moment, that there might be no talking in the window. She hardly spoke at breakfast-time, and adhered closely to Laura and Eveleen when they wandered in the garden. Presently Charles looked out from the dressing-room window, calling,–

‘Amy, Guy is ready to read.’

‘I can’t come. Read without me,’ she answered, hoping Charlie would not be vexed, and feeling her face light up again.

The hour for the expedition came, and Amy set off walking with Laura, because Guy was with Mrs. Edmonstone; but presently, after holding open a gate for Charlotte, who was on the donkey, he came up to the sisters, and joined in the conversation. Amy saw something in the hedge–a foxglove, she believed–it would have done as well if it had been a nettle–she stopped to gather it, hoping to fall behind them, but they waited for her. She grew silent, but Guy appealed to her. She ran on to Charlotte and her donkey, but at the next gate Guy had joined company again. At last she put herself under her mother’s wing, and by keeping with her did pretty well all the time she was at East-hill. But when they went on, she was riding the donkey, and it, as donkeys always are, was resolved on keeping a-head of the walkers, so that as Guy kept by her side, it was a more absolute tete-a-tete than ever.

At the top of the hill they found a fine view, rich and extensive, broad woods, fields waving with silvery barley, trim meadows, fair hazy blue distance, and a dim line of sea beyond. This, as Amy knew, was Guy’s delight, and further, what she would not tell herself, was that he chiefly cared for showing it to her. It was so natural to call him to admire everything beautiful, and ask if it was equal to Redclyffe, that she found herself already turning to him to participate in his pleasure, as he pointed out all that was to be seen; but she recollected, blushed, and left her mother to speak. He had much to show. There was a hanging wood on one side of the hill, whence he had brought her more than one botanical prize, and she must now visit their native haunts. It was too great a scramble for Mrs. Edmonstone, with all her good will; Eveleen was to be kept still, and not to tire herself; Laura did not care for botany, nor love brambles, and Amy was obliged to stand and look into the wood, saying, ‘No, thank you, I don’t think I can,’ and then run back to Mary and Charles; while Charlotte was loudly calling out that it was delightful fun, and that she was very stupid. In another minute Guy had overtaken her, and in his gentle, persuasive voice, was telling her it was very easy, and she must come and see the bird’s-nest orchises. She would have liked it above all things, but she thought it very kind of Guy not to seem angry when she said, ‘No, thank you.’

Mary, after what she had seen yesterday, could not guess at the real reason, or she would have come with her; but she thought Amy was tired, and would rather not. Poor Amy was tired, very tired, before the walk was over, but her weary looks made it worse, for Guy offered her his arm. ‘No thank you,’ she said, ‘I am getting on very well;’ and she trudged on resolutely, for her mother was in the carriage, and to lag behind the others would surely make him keep with her.

Mrs. Edmonstone was very sorry for her fatigue, but Amy found it a good excuse for not wandering in the garden, or joining in the music. It had been a very uncomfortable day; she hoped she had done right; at any rate, she had the peaceful conviction of having tried to do so.

The next day, Amy was steady to her resolution. No reading with the two youths, though Charles scolded her; sitting in her room till Guy was gone out, going indoors as soon as she heard him return, and in the evening staying with Charles when her sisters and cousins went out; but this did not answer, for Guy came and sat by them. She moved away as soon as possible, but the more inclined she was to linger, the more she thought she ought to go; so murmuring something about looking for Laura, she threw on her scarf, and sprung to the window. Her muslin caught on the bolt, she turned, Guy was already disentangling it, and she met his eye. It was full of anxious, pleading inquiry, which to her seemed upbraiding, and, not knowing what to do, she exclaimed, hurriedly, ‘Thank you; no harm done!’ and darted into the garden, frightened to feel her face glowing and her heart throbbing. She could not help looking back to see if he was following. No, he was not attempting it; he was leaning against the window, and on she hastened, the perception dawning on her that she was hurting him; he might think her rude, unkind, capricious, he who had always been so kind to her, and when he was going away so soon. ‘But it is right; it must be done,’ said little Amy to herself, standing still, now that she was out of sight. ‘If I was wrong before, I must bear it now, and he will see the rights of it sooner or later. The worst of all would be my not doing the very _most_ _right_ to please any body. Besides he can’t really care for missing silly little Amy when he has mamma and Charlie. And he is going away, so it will be easier to begin right when he comes back. Be that as it may, it must be done. I’ll get Charlie to tell me what he was saying about the painted glass.’

CHAPTER 13

Oh, thou child of many prayers!
Life hath quicksands–life hath snares– Care and age come unawares.

Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.–Longfellow

‘What is the matter with Amy? What makes her so odd?’ asked Charles, as his mother came to wish him good night.

‘Poor little dear! don’t take any notice,’ was all the answer he received; and seeing that he was to be told no more, he held his peace.

Laura understood without being told. She, too, had thought Guy and Amy were a great deal together, and combining various observations, she perceived that her mother must have given Amy a caution. She therefore set herself, like a good sister, to shelter Amy as much as she could, save her from awkward situations, and, above all, to prevent her altered manner from being remarked. This was the less difficult, as Eveleen was subdued and languid, and more inclined to lie on the sofa and read than to look out for mirth.

As to poor little Amy, her task was in one way become less hard, for Guy had ceased to haunt her, and seemed to make it his business to avoid all that could cause her embarrassment; but in another way it hurt her much more, for she now saw the pain she was causing. If obliged to do anything for her, he would give a look as if to ask pardon, and then her rebellious heart would so throb with joy as to cause her dismay at having let herself fall into so hateful a habit as wishing to attract attention. What a struggle it was not to obey the impulse of turning to him for the smile with which he would greet anything in conversation that interested them both, and how wrong she thought it not to be more consoled when she saw him talking to Eveleen, or to any of the others, as if he was doing very well without her. This did not often happen; he was evidently out of spirits, and thoughtful, and Amy was afraid some storm might be gathering respecting Mr. Sebastian Dixon, about whom there always seemed to be some uncomfortable mystery.

Mrs. Edmonstone saw everything, and said nothing. She was very sorry for them both, but she could not interfere, and could only hope she had done right, and protected Amy as far as she was able. She was vexed now and then to see Eveleen give knowing smiles and significant glances, feared that she guessed what was going on, and wondered whether to give her a hint not to add to Amy’s confusion; but her great dislike to enter on such a subject prevailed, and she left things to take their course, thinking that, for once, Guy’s departure would be a relief.

The approach of anything in the shape of a party of pleasure was one of the best cures for Eveleen’s ailments, and the evening before Mary’s tea-drinking, she was in high spirits, laughing and talking a great deal, and addressing herself chiefly to Guy. He exerted himself to answer, but it did not come with life and spirit, his countenance did not light up, and at last Eveleen said, ‘Ah! I see I am a dreadful bore. I’ll go away, and leave you to repose.’

‘Lady Eveleen!’ he exclaimed, in consternation; ‘what have I been doing–what have I been thinking of?’

‘Nay, that is best known to yourself, though I think perhaps I could divine,’ said she, with that archness and grace that always seemed to remove the unfavourable impression that her proceedings might have given. ‘Shall I?’

‘No, no,’ he answered, colouring crimson, and then trying to laugh off his confusion, and find some answer, but without success; and Eveleen, perceiving her aunt’s eyes were upon her, suddenly recollected that she had gone quite as far as decorum allowed, and made as masterly a retreat as the circumstances permitted.

‘Well, I have always thought a “penny for your thoughts” the boldest offer in the world, and now it is proved.’

This scene made Mrs. Edmonstone doubly annoyed, the next morning, at waking with a disabling headache, which made it quite impossible for her to attempt going to Mary Ross’s fete. With great sincerity, Amy entreated to be allowed to remain at home, but she thought it would only be making the change more remarkable; she did not wish Mary to be disappointed; among so many ladies, Amy could easily avoid getting into difficulties; while Laura would, she trusted, be able to keep Eveleen in order.

The day was sunny, and all went off to admiration. The gentlemen presided over the cricket, and the ladies over ‘blind man’s buff’ and ‘thread my needle;’ but perhaps Mary was a little disappointed that, though she had Sir Guy’s bodily presence, the peculiar blitheness and animation which he usually shed around him were missing. He sung at church, he filled tiny cups from huge pitchers of tea, he picked up and pacified a screaming child that had tumbled off a gate–he was as good- natured and useful as possible, but he was not his joyous and brilliant self.

Amy devoted herself to the smallest fry, played assiduously for three quarters of an hour with a fat, grave boy of three, who stood about a yard-and-a-half from her, solemnly throwing a ball into her lap, and never catching it again, took charge of many caps and bonnets, and walked about with Louisa Harper, a companion whom no one envied her.

In conclusion, the sky clouded over, it became chilly, and a shower began to fall. Laura pursued Eveleen, and Amy hunted up Charlotte from the utmost parts of the field, where she was the very centre of ‘winding up the clock,’ and sorely against her will, dragged her off the wet grass. About sixty yards from the house, Guy met them with an umbrella, which, without speaking, he gave to Charlotte. Amy said, ‘Thank you,’ and again came that look. Charlotte rattled on, and hung back to talk to Guy, so that Amy could not hasten on without leaving her shelterless. It may be believed that she had the conversation to herself. At the door they met Mary and her father, going to dismiss their flock, who had taken refuge in a cart-shed at the other end of the field. Guy asked if he could be of any use; Mr. Ross said no, and Mary begged Amy and Charlotte to go up to her room, and change their wet shoes.

There, Amy would fain have stayed, flushed and agitated as those looks made her; but Charlotte was in wild spirits, delighted at having been caught in the rain, and obliged to wear shoes a mile too large, and eager to go and share the fun in the drawing-room. There, in the twilight, they found a mass of young ladies herded together, making a confused sound of laughter, and giggling, while at the other end of the room, Amy could just see Guy sitting alone in a dark corner.

Charlotte’s tongue was soon the loudest in the medley, to which Amy did not at first attend, till she heard Charlotte saying–

‘Ah! you should hear Guy sing that.’

‘What?’ she whispered to Eveleen.

‘”The Land of the Leal,”‘ was the answer.

‘I wish he would sing it now,’ said Ellen Harper.

‘This darkness would be just the time for music,’ said Eveleen; ‘it is quite a witching time.’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’ said Ellen. ‘Come, Charlotte, there’s a good girl, go and ask him.’

‘Shall I?’ said Charlotte, whispering and giggling with an affectation of shyness.

‘No, no, Charlotte,’ said Laura.

‘No! why not?’ said Eveleen. ‘Don’t be afraid, Charlotte.’

‘He is so grave,’ said Charlotte.

Eveleen had been growing wilder and less guarded all day, and now, partly liking to tease and surprise the others, and partly emboldened by the darkness, she answered,–

‘It will do him all manner of good. Here, Charlotte, I’ll tell you how to make him. Tell him Amy wants him to do it.’

‘Ay! tell him so,’ cried Ellen, and they laughed in a manner that overpowered Amy with horror and shyness. She sprung to seize Charlotte, and stop her; she could not speak, but Louisa Harper caught her arm, and Laura’s grave orders were drowned in a universal titter, and suppressed exclamation,–‘Go, Charlotte, go; we will never forgive you if you don’t!’

‘Stop!’ Amy struggled to cry, breaking from Louisa, and springing up in a sort of agony. Guy, who had such a horror of singing anything deep in pathos or religious feeling to mixed or unfit auditors, asked to do so in her name! ‘Stop! oh, Charlotte!’ It was too late; Charlotte, thoughtless with merriment, amused at vexing Laura, set up with applause, and confident in Guy’s good nature, had come to him, and was saying,–‘Oh, Guy! Amy wants you to come and sing us the “Land of the Leal.”‘

Amy saw him start up. What, did he think of her? Oh, what! He stepped towards them. The silly girls cowered as if they had roused a lion. His voice was not loud–it was almost as gentle as usual; but it quivered, as if it was hard to keep it so, and, as well as she could see, his face was rigid and stern as iron. ‘Did you wish it?’ he said, addressing himself to her, as if she was the only person present.

Her breath was almost gone. ‘Oh! I beg your pardon,’ she faltered. She could not exculpate herself, she saw it looked like an idle, almost like an indecorous trick, unkind, everything abhorrent to her and to him, especially in the present state of things. His eyes were on her, his head bent towards her; he waited for an answer. ‘I beg your pardon,’ was all she could say.

There was–yes, there was–one of those fearful flashes of his kindling eye. She felt as if she was shrinking to nothing; she heard him say, in a low, hoarse tone, ‘I am afraid I cannot;’ then Mr. Ross, Mary, lights came in; there was a bustle and confusion, and when next she was clearly conscious, Laura was ordering the carriage.

When it came, there was an inquiry for Sir Guy.

‘He is gone home,’ said Mr. Ross. ‘I met him in the passage, and wished him good night.’

Mr. Ross did not add what he afterwards told his daughter, that Guy seemed not to know whether it was raining or not; that he had put an umbrella into his hand, and seen him march off at full speed, through the pouring rain, with it under his arm.

The ladies entered the carriage. Amy leant back in her corner, Laura forbore to scold either Eveleen or Charlotte till she could have them separately; Eveleen was silent, because she was dismayed at the effect she had produced, and Charlotte, because she knew there was a scolding impending over her.

They found no one in the drawing-room but Mr. Edmonstone and Charles, who said they had heard the door open, and Guy run up-stairs, but they supposed he was wet through, as he had not made his appearance. It was very inhospitable in the girls not to have made room for him in the carriage.

Amy went to see how her mother was, longing to tell her whole trouble, but found her asleep, and was obliged to leave it till the morrow. Poor child, she slept very little, but she would not go to her mother before breakfast, lest she should provoke the headache into staying another day. Guy was going by the train at twelve o’clock, and she was resolved that something should be done; so, as soon as her father had wished Guy goodbye, and ridden off to his justice meeting, she entreated her mother to come into the dressing-room, and hear what she had to say.

‘Oh, mamma! the most dreadful thing has happened!’ and, hiding her face, she told her story, ending with a burst of weeping as she said how Guy was displeased. ‘And well he might be! That after all that has vexed him this week, I should tease him with such a trick. Oh, mamma, what must he think?’

‘My dear, there was a good deal of silliness; but you need not treat it as if it was so very shocking.’

‘Oh, but it hurt him! He was angry, and now I know how it is, he is angry with himself for being angry. Oh, how foolish I have been! What shall I do?’

‘Perhaps we can let him know it was not your fault,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, thinking it might be very salutary for Charlotte to send her to confess.

‘Do you think so?’ cried Amy, eagerly. ‘Oh! that would make it all comfortable. Only it was partly mine, for not keeping Charlotte in better order, and we must not throw it all on her and Eveleen. You think we may tell him?’

‘I think he ought not to be allowed to fancy you let your name be so used.’

A message came for Mrs. Edmonstone, and while she was attending to it, Amy hastened away, fully believing that her mother had authorized her to go and explain it to Guy, and ask his pardon. It was what she thought the natural thing to do, and she was soon by his side, as she saw him pacing, with folded arms, under the wall.

Much had lately been passing in Guy’s mind. He had gone on floating on the sunny stream of life at Hollywell, too happy to observe its especial charm till the change in Amy’s manner cast a sudden gloom over all. Not till then did he understand his own feelings, and recognize in her the being he had dreamt of. Amy was what made Hollywell precious to him. Sternly as he was wont to treat his impulses, he did not look on his affection as an earthborn fancy, liable to draw him from higher things, and, therefore, to be combated; he deemed her rather a guide and guard whose love might arm him, soothe him, and encourage him. Yet he had little hope, for he did not do justice to his powers of inspiring affection; no one could distrust his temper and his character as much as he did himself, and with his ancestry and the doom he believed attached to his race, with his own youth and untried principles, with his undesirable connections, and the reserve he was obliged to exercise regarding them, he considered himself as objectionable a person as could well be found, as yet untouched by any positive crime, and he respected the Edmonstones too much to suppose that these disadvantages could be counterbalanced for a moment by his position; indeed, he interpreted Amy’s coolness by supposing that there was a desire to discourage his attentions. No poor tutor or penniless cousin ever felt he was doing a more desperate thing in confessing an attachment, than did Sir Guy Morville when he determined that all should be told, at the risk of losing her for ever, and closing against himself the doors of his happy home. It was not right and fair by her parents, he thought, so to regard their daughter, and live in the same house with his sentiments unavowed, and as to Amy herself, if his feelings had reached such a pitch of sensitiveness that he must needs behave like an angry lion, because her name had been dragged into an idle joke, it was high time it should be explained, unpropitious as the moment might be for declaring his attachment, when he had manifested such a temper as any woman might dread. Thus he made up his mind that, come of it what might, he would not leave Hollywell that day till the truth was told. Just as he was turning to find Mrs. Edmonstone and ‘put his fate to the touch,’ a little figure stood beside him, and Amy’s own sweet, low tones were saying, imploringly,–

‘Guy, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am you were so teased last night.’

‘Don’t think of it!’ said he, taken extremely by surprise

‘It was our fault, I could not stop it; I should have kept Charlotte in better order, but they would not let her hear me. I knew it was what you dislike particularly, and I was very sorry.’

‘You–I was–I was. But no matter now. Amy,’ he added earnestly, ‘may I ask you to walk on with me a little way? I must say something to you.’

Was this what ‘mamma’ objected to? Oh no! Amy felt she must stay now, and, in truth, she was glad it was right, though her heart beat fast, fast, faster, as Guy, pulling down a long, trailing branch of Noisette rose, and twisting it in his hand, paused for a few moments, then spoke collectedly, and without hesitation, though with the tremulousness of subdued agitation, looking the while not at her, but straight before him.

‘You ought to be told why your words and looks have such effect on me as to make me behave as I did last night. Shame on me for such conduct! I know its evil, and how preposterous it must make what I have to tell you. I don’t know now long it has been, but almost ever since I came here, a feeling has been growing up in me towards you, such as I can never have for any one else.’

The flame rushed into Amy’s cheeks, and no one could have told what she felt, as he paused again, and then went on speaking more quickly, as if his emotion was less under control.

‘If ever there is to be happiness for me on earth, it must be through you; as you, for the last three years, have been all my brightness here. What I feel for you is beyond all power of telling you, Amy! But I know full well all there is against me–I know I am untried, and how can I dare to ask one born to brightness and happiness to share the doom of my family?’

Amy’s impulse was that anything shared with him would be welcome; but the strength of the feeling stifled the power of expression, and she could not utter a word.

‘It seems selfish even to dream of it,’ he proceeded, ‘yet I must,–I cannot help it. To feel that I had your love to keep me safe, to know that you watched for me, prayed for me, were my own, my Verena,–oh Amy! it would be more joy than I have ever dared to hope for. But mind,’ he added, after another brief pause, ‘I would not even ask you to answer me now, far less to bind yourself, even if–if it were possible. I know my trial is not come; and were I to render myself, by positive act, unworthy even to think of you, it would be too dreadful to have entangled you, and made you unhappy. No. I speak now, because I ought not to remain here with such feelings unknown to your father and mother.’

At that moment, close on the other side of the box-tree clump, were heard the wheels of Charles’s garden-chair, and Charlotte’s voice talking to him, as he made his morning tour round the garden. Amy flew off, like a little bird to its nest, and never stopped till, breathless and crimson, she darted into the dressing room, threw herself on her knees, and with her face hidden in her mother’s lap, exclaimed in panting, half-smothered, whispers, which needed all Mrs. Edmonstone’s intuition to make them intelligible,–

‘0 mamma, mamma, he says–he says he loves me!’

Perhaps Mrs. Edmonstone was not so very much surprised; but she had no time to do more than raise and kiss the burning face, and see, at a moment’s glance, how bright was the gleam of frightened joy, in the downcast eye and troubled smile; when two knocks, given rapidly, were heard, and almost at the same moment the door opened, and Guy stood before her, his face no less glowing than that which Amy buried again on her mother’s knee.

‘Come in, Guy,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, as he stood doubtful for a moment at the door, and there was a sweet smile of proud, joyful affection on her face, conveying even more encouragement than her tone. Amy raised her head, and moved as if to leave the room.

‘Don’t go,’ he said, earnestly, ‘unless you wish it.’

Amy did not wish it, especially now that she had her mother to save her confusion, and she sat on a footstool, holding her mother’s hand, looking up to Guy, whenever she felt bold enough, and hanging down her head when he said what showed how much more highly he prized her than silly little Amy could deserve.

‘You know what I am come to say,’ he began, standing by the mantel- shelf, as was his wont in his conferences with Mrs. Edmonstone; and he repeated the same in substance as he had said to Amy in the garden, though with less calmness and coherence, and far more warmth of expression, as if, now that she was protected by her mother’s presence, he exercised less force in self-restraint.

Never was anyone happier than was Mrs. Edmonstone; loving Guy so heartily, seeing the beauty of his character in each word, rejoicing that such affection should be bestowed on her little Amy, exulting in her having won such a heart, and touched and gratified by the free confidence with which both had at once hastened to pour out all to her, not merely as a duty, but in the full ebullition of their warm young love. The only difficulty was to bring herself to speak with prudence becoming her position, whilst she was sympathizing with them as ardently as if she was not older than both of them put together. When Guy spoke of himself as unproved, and undeserving of trust, it was all she could do to keep from declaring there was no one whom she thought so safe.

‘While you go on as you have begun, Guy?’

‘If you tell me to hope! Oh, Mrs. Edmonstone, is it wrong that an earthly incentive to persevere should have power which sometimes seems greater than the true one?’

‘There is the best and strongest ground of all for trusting you,’ said she. ‘If you spoke keeping right only for Amy’s sake, then I might fear; but when she is second, there is confidence indeed.’

‘If speaking were all!’ said Guy.

‘There is one thing I ought to say,’ she proceeded; ‘you know you are very young, and though–though I don’t know that I can say so in my own person, a prudent woman would say, that you have seen so little of the world, that you may easily meet a person you would like better than such a quiet little dull thing as your guardian’s daughter.’

The look that he cast on Amy was worth seeing, and then, with a smile, he answered–

‘I am glad you don’t say it in your own person.’

‘It is very bold and presumptuous in me to say anything at all in papa’s absence’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling; ‘but I am sure he will think in the same way, that things ought to remain as they are, and that it is our duty not to allow you to be, or to feel otherwise than entirely at liberty.’

‘I dare say it may be right in you,’ said Guy, grudgingly. ‘However, I must not complain. It is too much that you should not reject me altogether.’

To all three that space was as bright a gleam of sunshine as ever embellished life, so short as to be free from a single care, a perfectly serenely happy present, the more joyous from having been preceded by vexations, each of the two young things learning that there was love where it was most precious. Guy especially, isolated and lonely as he stood in life, with his fear and mistrust of himself, was now not only allowed to love, and assured beyond his hopes that Amy returned his affection, but found himself thus welcomed by the mother, and gathered into the family where his warm feelings had taken up their abode, while he believed himself regarded only as a guest and a stranger.

They talked on, with happy silences between, Guy standing all the time with his branch of roses in his hand, and Amy looking up to him, and trying to realize it, and to understand why she was so very, very happy.

No one thought of time till Charlotte rushed in like a whirlwind, crying–

‘Oh, here you are! We could not think what had become of you. There has Deloraine been at the door these ten minutes, and Charlie sent me to find you, for he says if you are too late for Mrs. Henley’s dinner, she will write such an account of you to Philip as you will never get over.’

Very little of this was heard, there was only the instinctive consternation of being too late. They started up, Guy threw down his roses, caught Amy’s hand and pressed it, while she bent down her head, hiding the renewed blush; he dashed out of the room, and up to his own, while Mrs. Edmonstone and Charlotte hurried down. In another second, he was back again, and once more Amy felt the pressure of his hand on hers–

‘Good-bye!’ he said; and she whispered another ‘Good-bye!’ the only words she had spoken.

One moment more he lingered,–

‘My Verena!’ said he; but the hurrying sounds in the hall warned him– he sprang down to the drawing-room. Even Charles was on the alert, standing, leaning against the table, and looking eager; but Guy had not time to let him speak, he only shook hands, and wished good-bye, with a sort of vehement agitated cordiality, concealed by his haste.

‘Where’s Amy?’ cried Charlotte. ‘Amy! Is not she coming to wish him good-bye?’

He said something, of which ‘up-stairs’ was the only audible word; held Mrs. Edmonstone’s hand fast, while she said, in a low voice–‘You shall hear from papa to-morrow,’ then sprung on his horse, and looked up. Amy was at the window, he saw her head bending forward, under its veil of curls, in the midst of the roses round the lattice; their eyes met once more, he gave one beamy smile, then rode off at full speed, with Bustle racing after him, while Amy threw herself on her knees by her bed, and with hands clasped over her face, prayed that she might be thankful enough, and never be unworthy of him.

Every one wanted to get rid of every one else except Mrs. Edmonstone; for all but Charlotte guessed at the state of the case, and even she perceived that something was going on. Lady Eveleen was in a state of great curiosity; but she had mercy, she knew that they must tell each other before it came to her turn, and very good-naturedly she invited Charlotte to come into the garden with her, and kept her out of the way by a full account of her last fancy ball, given with so much spirit and humour that Charlotte could not help attending.

Charles and Laura gained little by this kind manoeuvre, for their mother was gone up again to Amy, and they could only make a few conjectures. Charles nursed his right hand, and asked Laura how hers felt? She looked up from her work, to which she had begun to apply herself diligently, and gazed at him inquiringly, as if to see whether he intended anything.

‘For my part,’ he added, ‘I certainly thought he meant to carry off the hands of some of the family.’

‘I suppose we shall soon hear it explained,’ said Laura, quietly.

‘Soon! If I had an many available 1egs as you, would I wait for other people’s soon?’

‘I should think she had rather be left to mamma,’ said Laura, going on with her work.

‘Then you do think there is something in it?’ said Charles, peering up in her face; but he saw he was teasing her, recollected that she had long seemed out of spirits, and forbore to say any more. He was, however, too impatient to remain longer quiet, and presently Laura saw him adjusting his crutches.

‘O Charlie! I am sure it will only be troublesome.’

‘I am going to my own room,’ said Charles, hopping off. ‘I presume you don’t wish to forbid that.’

His room had a door into the dressing-room, so that it was an excellent place for discovering all from which they did not wish to exclude him, and he did not believe he should be unwelcome; for though he might pretend it was all fun and curiosity, he heartily loved his little Amy.

The tap of his crutches, and the slow motion with which he raised himself from step to step, was heard, and Amy, who was leaning against her mother, started up, exclaiming–

‘0 mamma, here comes Charlie! May I tell him? I am sure I can’t meet him without.’

‘I suspect he has guessed it already,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, going to open the door, just as he reached the head of the stairs, and then leaving them.

‘Well, Amy,’ said he, looking full at her carnation cheeks, ‘are you prepared to see me turn lead-coloured, and fall into convulsions, like the sister with the spine complaint?’

‘0 Charlie! You know it. But how?’

Amy was helping him to the sofa, laid him down, and sat by him on the old footstool; he put his arm round her neck, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

‘Well, Amy,’ I give you joy, my small woman,’ said he, talking the more nonsense because of the fullness in his throat; ‘and I hope you give me credit for amazing self-denial in so doing.’

‘0 Charlie–dear Charlie!’ and she kissed him, she could not blush more, poor little thing, for she had already reached her utmost capability of redness–‘it is no such thing.’

‘No such thing? What has turned you into a turkey-cock all at once or what made him nearly squeeze off my unfortunate fingers? No such thing, indeed!’

‘I mean–I mean, it is not _that_. We are so very young, and I am so silly.’

‘Is that his reason?’

‘You must make me so much better and wiser. Oh, if I could but be good enough!’

For that matter, I don’t think any one else would be good enough to take care of such a silly little thing. But what is the that, that it is, or is not?’

‘Nothing now, only when we are older. At least, you know papa has not heard it.’

‘Provided my father gives his consent, as the Irish young lady added to all her responses through the marriage service. But tell me all–all you like, I mean–for you will have lovers’ secrets now, Amy.’

Mrs. Edmonstone had, meantime, gone down to Laura. Poor Laura, as soon as her brother had left the room, she allowed the fixed composure of her face to relax into a restless, harassed, almost miserable expression, and walked up and down with agitated steps.

‘0 wealth, wealth!’–her lips formed the words, without uttering them– ‘what cruel differences it makes! All smooth here! Young, not to be trusted, with strange reserves, discreditable connections,–that family,–that fearful temper, showing itself even to her! All will be overlooked! Papa will be delighted, I know he will! And how is it with us? Proved, noble, superior, owned as such by all, as Philip is, yet, for that want of hateful money, he would be spurned. And. for this–for this–the love that has grown up with our lives must be crushed down and hidden–our life is wearing out in wearying self- watching!’

The lock of the door turned, and Laura had resumed her ordinary expression before it opened, and her mother came in: but there was anything but calmness beneath, for the pang of self-reproach had come– ‘Was it thus that she prepared to hear these tidings of her sister?’

‘Well, Laura,’ began Mrs. Edmonstone, with the eager smile of one bringing delightful news, and sure of sympathy.

‘It is so, then?’ said Laura. ‘Dear, dear, little Amy! I hope–‘ and her eyes filled with tears; but she had learnt to dread any outbreak of feeling, conquered it in a minute, and said–

‘What has happened? How does it stand?’

‘It stands, at least as far as I can say without papa, as the dear Guy very rightly and wisely wished it to stand. There is no positive engagement, they are both too young; but he thought it was not right to remain here without letting us know his sentiments towards her.’

A pang shot through Laura; but it was but for a moment. Guy might doubt where Philip need never do so. Her mother went on,–

‘Their frankness and confidence are most beautiful. We know dear little Amy could not help it; but there was something very sweet, very noble, in his way of telling all.’

Another pang for Laura. But no! it was only poverty that was to blame. Philip would speak as plainly if his prospects were as fair.

‘Oh, I hope it will do well,’ said she.

‘It must,–it will!’ cried Mrs. Edmonstone, giving way to her joyful enthusiasm of affection. ‘It is nonsense to doubt, knowing him as we do. There is not a man in the world with whom I could be so happy to trust her.’

Laura could not hear Guy set above all men in the world, and she remembered Philip’s warning to her, two years ago.

‘There is much that is very good and very delightful about him,’ she said, hesitatingly.

‘You are thinking of the Morville temper,’ said her mother; ‘but I am not afraid of it. A naturally hot temper, controlled like his by strong religious principle, is far safer than a cool easy one, without the principle.’

Laura thought this going too far, but she felt some compensation due to Guy, and acknowledged how strongly he was actuated by principle. However–and it was well for her–they could not talk long, for Eveleen and Charlotte were approaching, and she hastily asked what was to be done about telling Eva, who could not fail to guess something.

‘We must tell her, and make her promise absolute secrecy,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘I will speak to her myself; but I must wait till I have seen papa. There is no doubt of what he will say, but we have been taking quite liberties enough in his absence.’

Laura did not see her sister till luncheon, when Amy came down, with a glow on her cheeks that made her so much prettier than usual, that Charles wished Guy could have seen her. She said little, and ran up again as soon as she could. Laura followed her; and the two sisters threw their arms fondly round each other, and kissed repeatedly.

‘Mamma has told you? said Amy. ‘Oh, it has made me so very happy; and every one is so kind.’

‘Dear, dear Amy!’

‘I’m only afraid–‘

‘He has begun so well–‘

‘Oh, nonsense! You cannot think I could be so foolish as to be afraid for him! Oh no! But if he should take me for more than I am worth. 0 Laura, Laura! What shall I do to be as good and sensible as you! I must not be silly little Amy any more.’

‘Perhaps he likes you best as you are?’

‘I don’t mean cleverness: I can’t help that,–and he knows how stupid I am,–but I am afraid he thinks there is more worth in me. Don’t you know, he has a sort of sunshine in his eyes and mind, that makes all he cares about seem to him brighter and better than it really is. I am afraid he is only dressing me up with that sunshine.’

‘It must be strange sunshine that you want to make you better and brighter than you are,’ said Laura, kissing her.

‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ said Amy folding her hands, and standing with her face raised, ‘it won’t do now, as you told me once, to have no bones in my character. I must learn to be steady and strong, if I can; for if this is to be, he will depend on me, I don’t mean, to advise him, for he knows better than anybody, but to be–you know what–if vexation, or trouble was to come! And Laura, think if he was to depend on me, and I was to fail! Oh, do help me to have firmness and self- command, like you!’

‘It was a long time ago that we talked of your wanting bones.’

‘Yes, before he came; but I never forget it.’

Laura was obliged to go out with Eveleen. All went their different ways; and Amy had the garden to herself to cool her cheeks in. But this was a vain operation, for a fresh access of burning was brought on while Laura was helping her to dress for dinner, when her father’s quick step sounded in the passage. He knocked at her door, and as she opened it, he kissed her on each cheek; and throwing his arm round her, exclaimed,–

‘Well, Miss Amy, you have made a fine morning’s work of it! A pretty thing, for young ladies to be accepting offers while papa is out of the way. Eh, Laura?’

Amy knew this was a manifestation of extreme delight; but it was not very pleasant to Laura.

‘So you have made a conquest!’ proceeded Mr. Edmonstone; ‘and I heartily wish you joy of it, my dear. He is as amiable and good- natured a youth as I would wish to see; and I should say the same if he had not a shilling in the world.’

Laura’s heart bounded; but she knew, whatever her father might fancy, the reality would be very different if Guy were as poor as Philip.

‘I shall write to him this very evening,’ he continued, ‘and tell him, if he has the bad taste to like such a silly little white thing, I am not the man to stand in his way. Eh, Amy? Shall I tell him so?’

‘Tell him what you please, dear papa.’

‘Eh? What I please? Suppose I say we can’t spare our little one, and he may go about his business?’

‘I’m not afraid of you, papa.’

‘Come, she’s a good little thing–sha’n’t be teased. Eh, Laura? what do you think of it, our beauty, to see your younger sister impertinent enough to set up a lover, while your pink cheeks are left in the lurch?’

Laura not being wont to make playful repartees, her silence passed unnoticed. Her feelings were mixed; but perhaps the predominant one was satisfaction that it was not for her pink cheeks that she was valued.

It had occurred to Mrs. Edmonstone that it was a curious thing, after her attempt at scheming for Eveleen, to have to announce to her that Guy was attached to her own daughter; nay, after the willingness Eveleen had manifested to be gratified with any attention Guy showed her, it seemed doubtful for a moment whether the intelligence would be pleasing to her. However, Eveleen was just the girl to like men better than women, and never to be so happy as when on the verge of flirting; it would probably have been the same with any other youth that came in her, way, and Guy might fully be acquitted of doing more than paying her the civilities which were requisite from him to any young lady visitor. He had, two years ago, when a mere boy, idled, laughed, and made fun with her, but his fear of trifling away his time had made him draw back, before he had involved himself in what might have led to anything further; and during the present visit, no one could doubt that he was preoccupied with Amy. At any rate, it was right that Eveleen should know the truth, in confidence, if only to prevent her from talking of any surmises she might have.

Mrs. Edmonstone was set at ease in a moment. Eveleen was enchanted, danced round and round the room, declared they would be the most charming couple in the world; she had seen it all along; she was so delighted they had come to an understanding at last, poor things, they were so miserable all last week; and she must take credit to herself for having done it all. Was not her aunt very much obliged to her?

‘My dear Eva,’ exclaimed Mrs. Edmonstone, into whose mind the notion never entered that any one could boast of such a proceeding as hers last night; but the truth was that Eveleen, feeling slightly culpable, was delighted that all had turned out so well, and resolved to carry it off with a high hand.

‘To be sure! Poor little Amy! when she looked ready to sink into the earth, she little knew her obligations to me! Was not it the cleverest thing in the world? It was just the touch they wanted–the very thing!’

‘My dear, I am glad I know that you are sometimes given to talking nonsense,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, laughing.

‘And you won’t believe me serious? You won’t be grateful to me for my lucky hit’ said Eveleen, looking comically injured. ‘Oh auntie, that is very hard, when I shall believe to my dying day that I did it!’

‘Why, Eva, if I thought it had been done by design, I should find it very hard to forgive you for it at all, rather hard even to accept Guy, so you had better not try to disturb my belief that it was only that spirit of mischief that makes you now and then a little mad.’

‘Oh dear! what a desperate scolding you must have given poor little Charlotte!’ exclaimed Eveleen, quaintly.

Mrs. Edmonstone could not help laughing as she confessed that she had altogether forgotten Charlotte.

‘Then you will. You’ll go on forgetting her,’ cried Eveleen. ‘She only did what she was told, and did not know the malice of it. There, you’re relenting! There’s a good aunt! And now, if you won’t be grateful, as any other mamma in the world would have been, and as I calculated on, when I pretended to have been a prudent, designing woman, instead of a wild mischievous monkey at least you’ll forgive me enough to invite me to the wedding. Oh! what a beauty of a wedding it will be! I’d come from Kilcoran all the way on my bare knees to see it. And you’ll let me be bridesmaid, and have a ball after it?’

‘There is no saying what I may do, if you’ll only be a good girl, and hold your tongue. I don’t want to prevent your telling anything to your mamma, of course, but pray don’t let it go any further. Don’t let Maurice hear it, I have especial reasons for wishing it should not be known. You know it is not even an engagement, and nothing must be done which can make Guy feel in the least bound?’

Eveleen promised, and Mrs. Edmonstone knew that she had sense and proper feeling enough for her promise to deserve trust.

CHAPTER 14

For falsehood now doth flow,
And subject faith doth ebbe,
Which would not be, if reason ruled, Or wisdom weav’d the webbe.

The daughter of debate,
That eke discord doth sowe,
Shal reape no gaine where former rule Hath taught stil peace to growe.–QUEEN ELIZABETH

‘ATHENAEUM TERRACE,
ST MILDRED’S,
August 4th,
‘MY DEAR PHILIP,–
Thank you for returning the books, which were brought safely by Sir Guy. I am sorry you do not agree in my estimate of them. I should have thought your strong sense would have made you perceive that reasoning upon fact, and granting nothing without tangible proof, were the best remedy for a dreamy romantic tendency to the weakness and credulity which are in the present day termed poetry and faith. It is curious to observe how these vague theories reduce themselves to the absurd when brought into practice. There are two Miss Wellwoods here, daughters of that unfortunate man who fell in a duel with old Sir Guy Morville, who seem to make it their business to become the general subject of animadversion, taking pauper children into their house, where they educate them in a way to unfit them for their station, and teach them to observe a sort of monastic rule, preaching the poor people in the hospital to death, visiting the poor at all sorts of strange hours. Dr Henley actually found one of them, at twelve o’clock at night, in a miserable lodging-house, filled with the worst description of inmates. Quite young women, too, and with no mother or elder person to direct them; but it is the fashion among the attendants at the new chapel to admire them. This subject has diverted me from what I intended to say with respect to the young baronet. Your description agrees with all I have hitherto seen, though I own I expected a Redclyffe Morville to have more of the “heros de roman”, or rather of the grand tragic cast of figure, as, if I remember right, was the case with this youth’s father, a much finer and handsomer young man. Sir Guy is certainly gentlemanlike, and has that sort of agreeability which depends on high animal spirits. I should think him clever, but superficial; and with his mania for music, he can hardly fail to be merely an accomplished man. In spite of all you said of the Redclyffe temper, I was hardly prepared to find it so ready to flash forth on the most inexplicable provocations. It is like walking on a volcano. I have seen him two or three times draw himself up, bite his lip, and answer with an effort and a sharpness that shows how thin a crust covers the burning lava; but I acknowledge that he has been very civil and attentive, and speaks most properly of what he owes to you. I only hope he will not be hurt by the possession of so large a property so early in life, and I have an idea that our good aunt at Hollywell has done a good deal to raise his opinion of himself. We shall, of course, show him every civility in our power, and give him the advantage of intellectual society at our house. His letters are directed to this place, as you know South Moor Farm is out of the cognizance of the post. They seem to keep up a brisk correspondence with him from Hollywell. Few guardians’ letters are, I should guess, honoured with such deepening colour as his while reading one from my uncle. He tells me he has been calling at Stylehurst; it is a pity, for his sake, that Colonel Harewood is at home, for the society of those sons is by no means advisable for him. I can hardly expect to offer him what is likely to be as agreeable to him as the conversation and amusements of Edward and Tom Harewood, who are sure to be at home for the St. Mildred’s races. I hear Tom has been getting into fresh scrapes at Cambridge.

‘Your affectionate sister, ‘MARGARET HENLEY.’

‘ATHENAEUM TERRACE.
ST. MILDRED’S,
Sept. 6th.
‘MY DEAR PHILIP,
–No one can have a greater dislike than myself to what is called mischief-making; therefore I leave it entirely to you to make what use you please of the following facts, which have fallen under my notice. Sir Guy Morville has been several times at St. Mildred’s, in company with Tom Harewood, and more than once alone with some strange questionable-looking people; and not many days ago, my maid met him coming out of a house in one of the low streets, which it is hard to assign a motive for his visiting. This, however, might be accident, and I should never have thought of mentioning it, but for a circumstance that occurred this morning. I had occasion to visit Grey’s Bank, and while waiting in conversation with Mr. Grey, a person came in whom I knew to be a notorious gambler, and offered a cheque to be changed. As it lay on the counter, my eye was caught by the signature. It was my uncle’s. I looked again, and could not be mistaken. It was a draft for £3O on Drummond, dated the 12th of August, to Sir Guy Morville, signed C. Edmonstone, and endorsed in Sir Guy’s own writing, with the name of John White. In order that I might be certain that I was doing the poor young man no injustice, I outstayed the man, and asked who he was, when Mr. Grey confirmed me in my belief that it was one Jack White, a jockeying sort of man who attends all the races in the country, and makes his livelihood by betting and gambling. And now, my dear brother, make what use of this fact you think fit, though I fear there is little hope of rescuing the poor youth from the fatal habits which are hereditary in his family, and must be strong indeed not to have been eradicated by such careful training as you say he has received. I leave it entirely to you, trusting in your excellent judgment, and only hoping you will not bring my name forward. Grieving much at having to be the first to communicate such unpleasant tidings, which will occasion so much vexation at Hollywell.’

‘Your affectionate sister, ‘MARGARET HENLEY.’

Captain Morville was alone when he received the latter of these letters. At first, a look divided between irony and melancholy passed over his face, as he read his sister’s preface and her hearsay evidence, but, as he went farther, his upper lip curled, and a sudden gleam, as of exultation in a verified prophecy, lighted his eye, shading off quickly, however, and giving place to an iron expression of rigidity and sternness, the compressed mouth, coldly-fixed eye, and sedate brow, composed into a grave severity that might have served for an impersonation of stern justice. He looked through the letter a second time, folded it up, put it in his pocket, and went about his usual affairs; but the expression did not leave his face all day; and the next morning he took a day-ticket by the railway to Broadstone, where, as it was the day of the petty sessions, he had little doubt of meeting Mr. Edmonstone. Accordingly, he had not walked far down the High Street, before he saw his uncle standing on the step of the post- office, opening a letter he had just received.

‘Ha! Philip, what brings you here? The very man I wanted. Coming to Hollywell?’

‘No, thank you, I go back this evening,’ said Philip, and, as he spoke, he saw that the letter which Mr. Edmonstone held, and twisted with a hasty, nervous movement, was in Guy’s writing.

‘Well, I am glad you are here, at any rate. Here is the most extraordinary thing! What possesses the boy I cannot guess. Here’s Guy writing to me for–What do you think? To send him a thousand pounds!’

‘Hem!’ said Philip in an expressive tone; yet, as if he was not very much amazed; ‘no explanation, I suppose?’

‘No, none at all. Here, see what he says yourself. No! Yes, you may,’ added Mr. Edmonstone, with a rapid glance at the end of the letter,–a movement, first to retain it, and then following his first impulse, with an unintelligible murmuring.

Philip read,–

‘SOUTH MOOR, SEPT. 7th.

‘MY DEAR MR, EDMONSTONE,
–You will be surprised at the request I have to make you, after my resolution not to exceed my allowance. However, this is not for my own expenses, and it will not occur again. I should be much obliged to you to let me have £1000, in what manner you please, only I should be glad if it were soon. I am sorry I am not at liberty to tell you what I want it for, but I trust to your kindness. Tell Charlie I will write to him in a day or two, but, between our work, and walking to St. Mildred’s for the letters, which we cannot help doing every day, the time for writing is short. Another month, however, and what a holiday it will be! Tell Amy she ought to be here to see the purple of the hills in the early morning; it almost makes up for having no sea. The races have been making St. Mildred’s very gay; indeed, we laugh at Wellwood for having brought us here, by way of a quiet place. I never was in the way of so much dissipation in my life.

‘Yours very affectionately, ‘GUY MORVILLE.’

‘Well, what do you think of it? What would you do in my place–eh, Philip! What can he want of it, eh?’ said Mr. Edmonstone, tormenting his riding-whip, and looking up to study his nephew’s face, which, with stern gravity in every feature, was bent over the letter, as if to weigh every line. ‘Eh, Philip?’ repeated Mr. Edmonstone, several times, without obtaining an answer.

‘This is no place for discussion,’ at last said Philip, deliberately returning the letter. ‘Come into the reading-room. We shall find no one there at this hour. Here we are.’

‘Well–well–well,’ began Mr. Edmonstone, fretted by his coolness to the extreme of impatience, ‘what do you think of it? He can’t be after any mischief; ’tis not in the boy; when–when he is all but–Pooh! what am I saying? Well, what do you think?’

‘I am afraid it confirms but too strongly a report which I received yesterday.’

‘From your sister? Does she know anything about it?’

‘Yes, from my sister. But I was very unwilling to mention it, because she particularly requests that her name may not be used. I came here to see whether you had heard of Guy lately, so as to judge whether it was needful to speak of it. This convinces me; but I must beg, in the first instance, that you will not mention her, not even to my aunt.’

‘Well, yes; very well. I promise. Only let me hear.’

‘Young Harewood has, I fear, led him into bad company. There can now be no doubt that he has been gambling.’

Philip was not prepared for the effect of these words. His uncle started up, exclaiming–‘Gambling! Impossible! Some confounded slander! I don’t believe one word of it! I won’t hear such things said of him,’ he repeated, stammering with passion, and walking violently about the room. This did not last long; there was something in the unmoved way in which Philip waited till he had patience to listen, which gradually mastered him; his angry manner subsided, and, sitting down, he continued the argument, in a would-be-composed voice.

‘It is utterly impossible! Remember, he thinks himself bound not so much as to touch a billiard cue.’

‘I could have thought it impossible, but for what I have seen of the way in which promises are eluded by persons too strictly bound,’ said Philip. ‘The moral force of principle is the only efficient pledge.’

‘Principle! I should like to see who has better principles than Guy!’ cried Mr. Edmonstone. ‘You have said so yourself, fifty times, and your aunt has said so, and Charles. I could as soon suspect myself.’ He was growing vehement, but again Philip’s imperturbability repressed his violence, and he asked, ‘Well, what evidence have you? Mind, I am not going to believe it without the strongest. I don’t know that I would believe my own eyes against him.’

‘It is very sad to find such confidence misplaced,’ said Philip. ‘Most sincerely do I wish this could be proved to be a mistake; but this extraordinary request corroborates my sister’s letter too fully.’

‘Let me hear,’ said Mr. Edmonstone feebly. Philip produced his letter, without reading the whole of it; for he could not bear the appearance of gossip and prying, and would not expose his sister; so he pieced it out with his own words, and made it sound far less discreditable to her. It was quite enough for Mr. Edmonstone; the accuracy of the details seemed to strike him dumb; and there was a long silence, which he broke by saying, with a deep sigh,–

‘Who could have thought it? Poor little Amy!’

‘Amy?’ exclaimed Philip.

‘Why, ay. I did not mean to have said anything of it, I am sure; but they did it among them,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, growing ashamed, under Philip’s eye, as of a dreadful piece of imprudence. ‘I was out of the way at the time, but I could not refuse my consent, you know, as things stood then.’

‘Do you mean to say that Amy is engaged to him?’

‘Why, no–not exactly engaged, only on trial, you understand, to see if he will be steady. I was at Broadstone; ’twas mamma settled it all. Poor little thing, she is very much in love with him, I do believe, but there’s an end of everything now.’

‘It is very fortunate this has been discovered in time,’ said Philip. ‘Instead of pitying her, I should rejoice in her escape.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, ruefully. ‘Who could have thought it?’

‘I am afraid the mischief is of long standing,’ proceeded Philip, resolved, since he saw his uncle so grieved, to press him strongly, thinking that to save Amy from such a marriage was an additional motive. ‘He could hardly have arrived at losing as much as a thousand pounds, all at once, in this month at St. Mildred’s. Depend upon it, that painful as it may be at present, there is great reason, on her account, to rejoice in the discovery. You say he has never before applied, to you for money?’

‘Not a farthing beyond his allowance, except this unlucky thirty pounds, for his additional expense of the tutor and the lodging.’

‘You remember, however, that he has always seemed short of money, never appeared able to afford himself any little extra expense. You have noticed it, I know. You remember, too, how unsatisfactory his reserve about his proceedings in London has been, and how he has persisted in delaying there, in spite of all warnings. The work, no doubt, began there, under the guidance of his uncle; and now the St. Mildred’s races and Tom Harewood have continued it.’

‘I wish he had never set foot in the place!’

‘Nay; for Amy’s sake, the exposure is an advantage, if not for his own. The course must have been long since begun; but he contrived to avoid what could lead to inquiry, till he has at length involved himself in some desperate scrape. You see, he especially desires to have the money _soon_, and he never even attempts to say you would approve of the object.

‘Yes; he has the grace not to say that.’

‘Altogether, it is worse than I could have thought possible,’ said Philip. I could have believed him unstable and thoughtless; but the concealment, and the attempting to gain poor Amy’s affections in the midst of such a course–‘

‘Ay, ay!’ cried Mr. Edmonstone, now fully provoked; ‘there is the monstrous part. He thought I was going to give up my poor little girl to a gambler, did he? but he shall soon see what I think of him,– riches, Redclyffe, title, and all!’

‘I knew that would be your feeling.’

‘Feel! Yes; and he shall feel it, too. So, Sir Guy, you thought you had an old fool of a guardian, did you, whom you could blind as you pleased? but you shall soon see the difference!’

‘Better begin cautiously,’ suggested Philip. ‘Remember his unfortunate temper, and write coolly.’

‘Coolly? You may talk of coolness; but ’tis enough to make one’s blood boil to be served in such a way. With the face to be sending her messages in the very same letter! That is a pass beyond me, to stand coolly to see my daughter so treated.’

‘I would only give him the opportunity of saying what he can for himself. He may have some explanation.’

‘I’ll admit of no explanation! Passing himself off for steadiness itself; daring to think of my daughter, and all the time going on in this fashion! I hate underhand ways! I’ll have no explanation. He may give up all thoughts of her. I’ll write and tell him so before I’m a day older; nay, before I stir from this room. My little Amy, indeed!’

Philip put no obstacles in the way of this proposal, for he knew that his uncle’s displeasure, though hot at first, was apt to evaporate in exclamations; and he thought it likely that his good nature, his partiality for his ward, his dislike to causing pain to his daughter, and, above all, his wife’s blind confidence in Guy, would, when once at home, so overpower his present indignation as to prevent the salutary strictness which was the only hope of reclaiming Guy. Beside, a letter written under Philip’s inspection was likely to be more guarded, as well as more forcible, than an unassisted composition of his own, as was, indeed, pretty well proved by the commencement of his first attempt.

‘My dear Guy,–I am more surprised than I could have expected at your application.’

Philip read this aloud, so as to mark its absurdity, and he began again.

‘I am greatly astonished, as well as concerned, at your application, which confirms the unpleasant reports–‘

‘Why say anything of reports?’ said Philip. ‘Reports are nothing. A man is not forced to defend himself from reports.’

‘Yes,–hum–ha,–the accounts I have received. No. You say there is not to be a word of Mrs. Henley.’

‘Not a word that can lead her to be suspected.’

‘Confirms–confirms–‘ sighed Mr. Edmonstone.

‘Don’t write as if you went on hearsay evidence. Speak of proofs– irrefragable proofs–and then you convict him at once, without power of eluding you.’

So Mr. Edmonstone proceeded to write, that the application confirmed the irrefragable proofs, then laughed at himself, and helplessly begged Philip to give him a start. It now stood thus:–

‘Your letter of this morning has caused me more concern than surprise, as it unhappily only adds confirmation to the intelligence already in my possession; that either from want of resolution to withstand the seductions of designing persons, or by the impetuosity and instability of your own character, you have been led into the ruinous and degrading practice of gambling; and that from hence proceed the difficulties that occasion your application to me for money. I am deeply grieved at thus finding that neither the principles which have hitherto seemed to guide you, nor the pledges which you used to hold sacred, nor, I may add, the feelings you have so recently expressed towards a member of my family, have been sufficient to preserve you from yielding to a temptation which could never be presented to the mind of any one whose time was properly occupied in the business of his education.’

‘Is that all I am to say about her,’ exclaimed Mr. Edmonstone, ‘after the atrocious way the fellow has treated her in?’

‘Since it is, happily, no engagement, I cannot see how you can, with propriety, assume that it is one, by speaking of breaking it off. Besides, give him no ground for complaint, or he will take refuge in believing himself ill-used. Ask him if he can disprove it, and when he cannot, it will be time enough to act further. But wait–wait, sir,’ as the pen was moving over the paper, impatient to dash forward. ‘You have not told him yet of what you accuse him.’

Philip meditated a few moments, then produced another sentence.

‘I have no means of judging how long you have been following this unhappy course; I had rather believe it is of recent adoption, but I do not know how to reconcile this idea with the magnitude of your demand, unless your downward progress has been more rapid than usual in such beginnings. It would, I fear, be quite vain for me to urge upon you all the arguments and reasons that ought to have been present to your mind, and prevented you from taking the first fatal step. I can only entreat you to pause, and consider the ruin and degradation to which this hateful vice almost invariably conducts its victims, and consistently with my duty as your guardian, everything in my power shall be done to extricate you from the embarrassments in which you have involved yourself. But, in the first place, I make it a point that you treat me with perfect confidence, and make a full, unequivocal statement of your proceedings; above all, that you explain the circumstances, occasioning your request for this large sum. Remember, I say, complete candour on your part will afford the only means of rescuing you from difficulties, or of in any degree restoring you to my good opinion.’

So far the letter had proceeded slowly, for Philip was careful and deliberate in composition, and while he was weighing his words, Mr. Edmonstone rushed on with something unfit to stand, so as to have to begin over again. At last, the town clock struck five; Philip started, declaring that if he was not at the station in five minutes, he should lose the train; engaged to come to Hollywell on the day an answer might be expected, and hastened away, satisfied by having seen two sheets nearly filled, and having said there was nothing more but to sign, seal, and send it.

Mr. Edmonstone had, however, a page of note-paper more, and it was with a sensation of relief that he wrote,–

‘I wish, from the bottom of my heart, that you could clear yourself. If a dozen men had sworn it till they were black in the face, I would not have believed it of you that you could serve us in such a manner, after the way you have been treated at home, and to dare to think of my daughter with such things on your mind. I could never have believed it, but for the proofs Philip has brought; and I am sure he is as sorry as myself. Only tell the whole truth, and I will do my best to get you out of the scrape. Though all else must be at an end between us, I am your guardian still, and I will not be harsh with you.’

He posted his letter, climbed up his tall horse, and rode home, rather heavy-hearted; but his wrath burning out as he left Broadstone behind him. He saw his little Amy gay and lively, and could not bear to sadden her; so he persuaded himself that there was no need to mention the suspicions till he had heard what Guy had to say for himself. Accordingly, he told no one but his wife; and she, who thought Guy as unlikely to gamble as Amy herself, had not the least doubt that he would be able to clear himself, and agreed that it was much better to keep silence for the present.

CHAPTER 15

‘Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
How much I have disabled mine estate, By something showing a more swelling port Than my faint means would grant continuance. Merchant of Venice

St. Mildred’s was a fashionable summer resort, which the virtues of a mineral spring, and the reputation of Dr. Henley, had contributed to raise to a high degree of prosperity. It stood at the foot of a magnificent range of beautifully formed hills, where the crescents and villas, white and smart, showed their own insignificance beneath the purple peaks that rose high above them.

About ten miles distant, across the hills, was Stylehurst, the parish of the late Archdeacon Morville, and the native place of Philip and his sister Margaret. It was an extensive parish, including a wide tract of the hilly country; and in a farm-house in the midst of the moorland, midway between St. Mildred’s and the village of Stylehurst, had Mr. Wellwood fixed himself with his three pupils.

Guy’s first visit was of course to Mrs. Henley, and she was, on her side, prepared by her brother to patronize him as Philip would have done in her place. Her patronage was valuable in her own circle; her connections were good; the Archdeacon’s name was greatly respected; she had a handsome and well-regulated establishment, and this, together with talents which, having no family, she had cultivated more than most women have time to do, made her a person of considerable distinction at St. Mildred’s. She was, in fact, the leading lady of the place–the manager of the book-club, in the chair at all the charitable committees, and the principal person in society, giving literary parties, with a degree of exclusiveness that made admission to them a privilege.

She was a very fine woman, handsomer at two-and-thirty than in her early bloom; her height little less than that of her tall brother, and her manner and air had something very distinguished. The first time Guy saw her, he was strongly reminded both of Philip and of Mrs. Edmonstone, but not pleasingly. She seemed to be her aunt, without the softness and motherly affection, coupled with the touch of naivete that gave Mrs. Edmonstone her freshness, and loveableness; and her likeness to her brother included that decided, self-reliant air, which became him well enough, but which did not sit as appropriately on a woman.

Guy soon discovered another resemblance–for the old, unaccountable impatience of Philip’s conversation, and relief in escaping from it, haunted him before he had been a quarter of an hour in Mrs. Henley’s drawing-room. She asked after the Hollywell party; she had not seen her cousins since her marriage, and happily for his feelings, passed over Laura and Amy as if they were nonentities; but they were all too near his heart for him to be able with patience to hear ‘poor Charles’s’ temper regretted, and still less the half-sarcastic, half- compassionate tone in which she implied that her aunt spoilt him dreadfully, and showed how cheap she hold both Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone.

Two years ago, Guy could not have kept down his irritation; but now he was master of himself sufficiently to give a calm, courteous reply, so conveying his own respect for them, that Mrs. Henley was almost disconcerted.

Stylehurst had great interest for Guy, both for the sake of Archdeacon Morville’s kindness, and as the home which Philip regarded with affection, that seemed the one softening touch in his character. So Guy visited the handsome church, studied the grave-yard, and gathered the traditions of the place from the old sexton’s wife, who rejoiced in finding an auditor for her long stories of the good Archdeacon, Miss Fanny, and Mr. Philip. She shook her head, saying times were changed, and ‘Miss Morville that was, never came neist the place.’

The squire, Colonel Harewood, was an old friend of his grandfather’s, and therefore was to be called on. He had never been wise, and had been dissipated chiefly from vacancy of mind; he was now growing old, and led a quieter life, and though Guy did not find him a very entertaining companion, he accepted, his civilities, readily, for his grandfather’s sake. When his sons came home, Guy recognized in them the description of men he was wont to shun at Oxford, as much from distaste as from principle; but though he did not absolutely avoid them, he saw little of them, being very busy, and having pleasant companions in his fellow pupils. It was a very merry party at South Moor, and Guy’s high spirits made him the life of everything.

The first time Mr. Wellwood went to call on his cousins at St. Mildred’s, the daughters of that officer who had fallen by the hand of old Sir Guy, he began repeating, for the twentieth time, what an excellent fellow Morville was; then said he should not have troubled them with any of his pupils, but Morville would esteem their receiving him as an act of forgiveness, and besides, he wished them to know one whom he valued so highly. Guy thus found himself admitted into an entirely new region. There were two sisters, together in everything. Jane, the younger, was a kind-hearted, commonplace person, who would never have looked beyond the ordinary range of duties and charities; but Elizabeth was one of those who rise up, from time to time, as burning and shining lights. It was not spending a quiet, easy life, making her charities secondary to her comforts, but devoting time, strength, and goods; not merely giving away what she could spare, but actually sharing all with the poor, reserving nothing for the future. She not only taught the young, and visited the distressed, but she gathered orphans into her house, and nursed the sick day and night. Neither the means nor the strength of the two sisters could ever have been supposed equal to what they were known to have achieved. It seemed as if the power grew with the occasion, and as if they had some help which could not fail them. Guy venerated them more and more, and many a long letter about them was written to Mrs. Edmonstone for Amy to read. There is certainly a ‘tyrannous hate’ in the world for unusual goodness, which is a rebuke to it, and there was a strong party against the sisters. At the head of it was Mrs. Henley, who had originally been displeased at their preferring the direction of the clergyman to that of the ladies’ committee, though the secret cause of her dislike was, perhaps, that Elizabeth Wellwood was just what Margaret Morville might have been. So she blamed them, not, indeed for their charity, but for slight peculiarities which might well have been lost in the brightness of the works of mercy. She spoke as with her father’s authority, though, if she had been differently disposed, she might have remembered that his system and principles were the same as theirs, and that, had he been alive, he would probably have fully approved of their proceedings. Archdeacon Morville’s name was of great weight, and justified many persons, in their own opinion, in the opposition made to Miss Wellwood, impeding her usefulness, and subjecting her to endless petty calumnies.

These made Guy very angry. He knew enough of the Archdeacon through Mrs. Edmonstone, and the opinions held by Philip, to think his daughter was ascribing to him what he had never held but, be that as it might, Guy could not bear to hear good evil spoken of, and his indignation was stirred as he heard these spiteful reports uttered by people who sat at home at ease, against one whose daily life was only too exalted for their imitation. His brow contracted, his eye kindled, his lip was bitten, and now and then, when he trusted himself to reply, it was with a keen, sharp power of rebuke that made people look round, astonished to hear such forcible words from one so young. Mrs. Henley was afraid of him, without knowing it; she thought she was sparing the Morville temper when she avoided the subject, but as she stood in awe of no one else, except her brother, she disliked him accordingly.

One evening Guy had been dining at Dr. Henley’s, and was setting out, enjoying his escape from Mrs. Henley and her friends, and rejoicing in the prospect of a five miles’ walk over the hills by moonlight. He had only gone the length of two streets, when he saw a dark figure at a little distance from him, and a voice which he had little expected to hear, called out,–

‘Sir Guy himself! No one else could whistle that Swedish air so correctly!’

‘My uncle!’ exclaimed Guy. ‘I did not know that you were here!’

Mr. Dixon laughed, said something about a fortunate rencontre, and began an account about a concert somewhere or other, mixed up with something about his wife and child, all so rambling and confused, that Guy, beginning to suspect he had been drinking, was only anxious to get rid of him, asked where he lodged, and talked of coming to see him in the morning. He soon found, however, that this had not been the case, at least not to any great extent. Dixon was only nervous and excited, either about something he had done, or some request he had to make, and he went on walking by his nephew’s side, talking in a strange, desultory way of open, generous-hearted fellows overlooking a little indiscretion, and of Guy’s riches, which he seemed to think inexhaustible.

‘If there is anything that you want me to do for you, tell me plainly what it is,’ said Guy, at last.

Mr. Dixon began to overwhelm him with thanks, but he cut them short. ‘I promise nothing. Let me hear what you want, and I can judge whether I can do it.’

Sebastian broke out into exclamations at the words ‘if I can,’ as if he thought everything in the power of the heir of Redclyffe.

‘Have I not told you,’ said Guy, ‘that for the present I have very little command of money? Hush! no more of that,’ he added, sternly, cutting off an imprecation which his uncle was commencing on those who kept him so short.

‘And you are content to bear it? Did you never hear of ways and means? If you were to say but one word of borrowing, they would go down on their knees to you, and offer you every farthing you have to keep you in their own hands.’

‘I am quite satisfied,’ said Guy, coldly.

‘The greater fool are you!’ was on Dixon’s lips, but he did not utter it, because he wanted to propitiate him; and after some more circumlocution, Guy succeeded in discovering that he had been gambling, and had lost an amount which, unless he could obtain immediate assistance, would become known, and lead to the loss of his character and situation. Guy stood and considered. He had an impulse, but he did not think it a safe one, and resolved to give himself time.

‘I do not say that I cannot help you,’ he answered, ‘but I must have time to consider.’

‘Time! would you see me ruined while you are considering?’

‘I suppose this must be paid immediately. Where do you lodge?’

Mr. Dixon told him the street and number.

‘You shall hear from me to-morrow morning. I cannot trust my present thoughts. Good night!’

Mr. Dixon would fain have guessed whether the present thoughts were favourable, but all his hope in his extremity was in his nephew; it might be fatal to push him too far, and, with a certain trust in his good-nature, Sebastian allowed him to walk away without further remonstrance.

Guy knew his own impetuous nature too well to venture to act on impulse in a doubtful case. He had now first to consider what he was able to do, and secondly what he would do; and this was not as clear to his mind as in the earlier days of his acquaintance with his uncle.

Their intercourse had never been on a comfortable footing. It would perhaps have been better if Philip’s advice had been followed, and no connection kept up. Guy had once begged for some definite rule, since there was always vexation when he was known to have been with his uncle, and yet Mr. Edmonstone would never absolutely say he ought not to see him. As long as his guardian permitted it, or rather winked at it, Guy did not think it necessary to attend to Philip’s marked disapproval. Part of it was well founded, but part was dislike to all that might be considered as vulgar, and part was absolute injustice to Sebastian Dixon, there was everything that could offend in his line of argument, and in the very circumstance of his interfering; and Guy had a continual struggle, in which he was not always successful, to avoid showing the affront he had taken, and to reason down his subsequent indignation. The ever-recurring irritation which Philip’s conversation was apt to cause him, made him avoid it as far as he could, and retreat in haste from the subjects on which they were most apt to disagree, and so his manner had assumed an air of reserve, and almost of distrust, with his cousin, that was very unlike its usual winning openness.

This had been one unfortunate effect of his intercourse with his uncle, and another was a certain vague, dissatisfied feeling which his silence, and Philip’s insinuations respecting the days he spent in London, left on Mr. Edmonstone’s mind, and which gained strength from their recurrence. The days were, indeed, not many; it was only that in coming from and going to Oxford, he slept a night at an hotel in London (for his uncle never would take him to his lodgings, never even would tell him where they were, but always gave his address at the place of his engagement), was conducted by him to some concert in the evening, and had him to breakfast in the morning. He could not think there was any harm in this; he explained all he had done to Mr. Edmonstone the first time, but nothing was gained by it: his visits to London continued to be treated as something to be excused or overlooked–as something not quite correct.

He would almost have been ready to discontinue them, but that he saw that his uncle regarded him with affection, and he could not bear the thought of giving up a poor relation for the sake of the opinion of his rich friends. These meetings were the one pure pleasure to which Sebastian looked, recalling to him the happier days of his youth, and of his friendship with Guy’s father; and when Guy perceived how he valued them, it would have seemed a piece of cruel neglect to gratify himself by giving the time to Hollywell.

Early in the course of their acquaintance, the importunity of a creditor revealed that, in spite of his handsome salary, Sebastian Dixon was often in considerable distress for money. In process of time, Guy discovered that at the time his uncle had been supporting his sister and her husband in all the luxury he thought befitted their rank, he had contracted considerable debts, and he had only been able to return to England on condition of paying so much a-year to his creditors. This left him very little on which to maintain his family, but still his pride made him bent on concealing his difficulties, and it was not without a struggle that he would at first consent to receive assistance from his nephew.

Guy resolved that these debts, which he considered as in fact his father’s own, should be paid as soon as he had the command of his property; but, in the meantime, he thought himself bound to send his uncle all the help in his power, and when once the effort of accepting it at all was over, Dixon’s expectations extended far beyond his power. His allowance was not large, and the constant requests for a few pounds to meet some pressing occasion were more than he could well meet. They kept him actually a great deal poorer than men without a tenth part of his fortune, and at the end of the term he would look back with surprise at having been able to pay his way; but still he contrived neither to exceed his allowance, nor to get into debt. This was, indeed, only done by a rigid self-denial of little luxuries such as most young men look on nearly as necessaries; but he had never been brought up to think self-indulgence a consequence of riches, he did not care what was said of him, he had no expensive tastes, for he did not seek after society, so that he was not ill-prepared for such a course, and only thought of it as an assistance in abstaining from the time- wasting that might have tempted him if he had had plenty of money to spend.

The only thing that concerned him was a growing doubt lest he might be feeding extravagance instead of doing good; and the more he disliked himself for the suspicion, the more it would return. There was no doubt much distress, the children were sickly; several of them died; the doctor’s bills, and other expenses, pressed heavily, and Guy blamed himself for having doubted. Yet, again, he could not conceal from himself traces that his uncle was careless and imprudent. He had once, indeed, in a violent fit of self-reproach, confessed as much, allowed that what ought to have been spent in the maintenance of his family, had gone in gambling, but immediately after, he had been seized with a fit of terror, and implored Guy to guard the secret, since, if once it came to the knowledge of his creditors, it would be all over with him. Concealment of his present difficulties was therefore no less necessary than assistance in paying the sum he owed. Indeed, as far as Guy was able to understand his confused statement, what he wanted was at once to pay a part of his debt, before he could go on to a place where he was engaged to perform, and where he would earn enough to make up the rest.

Guy had intended to have sent for Deloraine, but had since given up the idea, in order to be able to help forward some plans of Miss Wellwood’s, and resigning this project would enable him to place thirty pounds at his uncle’s disposal, leaving him just enough to pay his expenses at South Moor, and carry him back to Hollywell. It was sorely against his inclination that, instead of helping a charity, his savings should go to pay gaming debts, and his five-miles walk was spent in