Kitabı oku: «The Heir of Redclyffe», sayfa 38
Mrs. Edmonstone’s judgment was to carry it at once to Amabel, and she was right, for the pleasure she took in it was indescribable. She fondled it, set it up by her on her little table, made Charlotte put it in different places that she might see what point of view suited it best, had it given back to her, held it in her hands caressingly, and said she must write at once to Mrs. Ashford to thank her for understanding her so well. There was scarcely one of the mourners to be pitied more than Markham, for the love he had set on Sir Guy had been intense, compounded of feudal affection, devoted admiration, and paternal care—and that he, the very flower of the whole race, should thus have been cut down in the full blossom of his youth and hopes, was almost more than the old man could bear or understand. It was a great sorrow, too, that he should be buried so far away from his forefathers; and the hearing it was by his own desire, did not satisfy him, he sighed over it still, and seemed to derive a shade of comfort only when he was told there was to be a tablet in Redclyffe church to the memory of Guy, sixth baronet.
In the evening Markham became very confidential with Charles; telling him about the grievous mourning and lamentation at Redclyffe, when the bells rung a knell instead of greeting the young master and his bride, and how there was scarcely one in the parish that did not feel as if they had lost a son or a brother. He also told more and more of Sir Guy’s excellence, and talked of fears of his own, especially last Christmas; that the boy was too unlike other people, too good to live; and lastly, he indulged in a little abuse of Captain Morville, which did Charles’s heart good, at the same time as it amused him to think how Markham would recollect it, when he came to hear of Laura’s engagement.
In the course of the next day, Markham had his conference with Lady Morville in the dressing-room, and brought her two or three precious parcels, which he would not, for the world, have given into any other hands. He could hardly bear to look at her in her widow’s cap, and behaved to her with a manner varying between his deference and respect to the Lady of Redclyffe, and his fatherly fondness for the wife of ‘his boy.’ As to her legal powers, he would have thought them foolishly bestowed, if they had been conferred by any one save his own Sir Guy, and he began by not much liking to act with her; but he found her so clear-headed, that he was much surprised to find a woman could have so much good sense, and began to look forward with some satisfaction to being her prime minister. They understood each other very well; Amabel’s good sense and way of attending to the one matter in hand, kept her from puzzling and alarming herself by thinking she had more to do than she could ever understand or accomplish; she knew it was Guy’s work, and a charge he had given her,—a great proof of his confidence,—and she did all that was required of her very well, so that matters were put in train to be completed when she should be of age, in the course of the next January.
When Markham left her she was glad to be alone, and to open her parcels. There was nothing here to make her hysterical, for she was going to contemplate the living soul, and felt almost, as if it was again being alone with her husband. There were his most prized and used books, covered with marks and written notes; there was Laura’s drawing of Sintram, which had lived with him in his rooms at Oxford; there was a roll of music, and there was his desk. The first thing when she opened it was a rough piece of spar, wrapped in paper, on which was written, ‘M. A. D., Sept. 18.’ She remembered what he had told her of little Marianne’s gift. The next thing made her heart thrill, for it was a slip of pencilling in her own writing, ‘Little things, on little wings, bear little souls to heaven.’
Her own letters tied up together, those few that she had written in the short time they were separated just before their marriage! Could that be only six months ago? A great bundle of Charles’s and of Mrs. Edmonstone’s; those she might like to read another time, but not now. Many other papers letters signed S. B. Dixon, which she threw aside, notes of lectures, and memoranda, only precious for the handwriting; but when she came to the lower division; she found it full of verses, almost all the poetry he had ever written.
There were the classical translations that used to make him inaccurate, a scrap of a very boyish epic about King Arthur, beginning with a storm at Tintagel, sundry half ballads, the verses he was suspected of, and never would show, that first summer at Hollywell, and a very touching vision of his fair young mother. Except a translation or two, some words written to suit their favourite airs (a thing that used to seem to come as easily to him as singing to a bird), and a few lively mock heroic accounts of walks or parties, which had all been public property, there was no more that she could believe to have been composed till last year, for he was more disposed to versify in sorrow than in joy. There were a good many written during his loneliness, for his reflections had a tendency to flow into verse, and pouring them out thus had been a great solace. The lines were often imperfect and irregular, but not one that was not deep, pure, and genuine, and here and there scattered with passages of exquisite beauty and harmony, and full of power and grace. No one could have looked at them without owning in them the marks of a thorough poet, but this was not what the wife was seeking, and when she perceived it, though it made her face beam with a sort of satisfied pride, it was a secondary thing. She was studying not his intellect, but his soul; she did not care whether he would have been a poet, what she looked for was the record of the sufferings and struggles of the sad six months when his character was established, strengthened, and settled.
She found it. There was much to which she alone had the clue, too deep, and too obscurely hinted, to be understood at a glance. She met with such evidence of suffering as made her shudder and weep, tokens of the dark thoughts that had gathered round him, of the manful spirit of penitence and patience that had been his stay, and of the gleams that lighted his darkest hours, and showed he had never been quite forsaken. Now and then came a reference which brought home what he had told her; how the thought of his Verena had cheered him when he dared not hope she would be restored. Best of all were the lines written when the radiance of Christmas was, once for all, dispersing the gloom, and the vision opening on him, which he was now realizing. In reading them, she felt the same marvellous sympathy of subdued wondering joy in the victory of which she had partaken as she knelt beside his death-bed. These were the last. He had been too happy for poetry, except one or two scraps in Switzerland, and these had been hers from the time she had detected them.
No wonder Amabel almost lived on those papers! It would not be too much to say she was very happy in her own way when alone with them; the desk on a chair by her sofa. They were too sacred for any one else; she did not for many weeks show one even to her mother; but to her they were like a renewal of his presence, soothing the craving after him that had been growing on her ever since the first few days when his sustaining power had not passed away. As she sorted them, and made out their dates, finding fresh stores of meaning at each fresh perusal she learnt through them, as well as through her own trial, so patiently borne, to enter into his character even more fully than when he was in her sight. Mrs. Edmonstone, who had at first been inclined to dread her constant dwelling on them, soon perceived that they were her great aids through this sad winter.
She had much pleasure in receiving the portrait, which was sent her by Mr. Shene. It was a day or two before she could resolve to look at it, or feel that she could do so calmly. It was an unfinished sketch, taken more with a view to the future picture than to the likeness; but Guy’s was a face to be better represented by being somewhat idealized, than by copying merely the material form of the features. An ordinary artist might have made him like a Morville, but Mr. Shene had shown all that art could convey of his individual self, with almost one of his unearthly looks. The beautiful eyes, with somewhat of their peculiar lightsomeness, the flexible look of the lip, the upward pose of the head, the set of that lock of hair that used to wave in the wind, the animated position, ‘just ready for a start,’ as Charles used to call it, were recalled as far as was in the power of chalk and crayon, but so as to remind Amabel of him more as one belonging to heaven than to earth. The picture used to be on her mantel-shelf all night, the shipwreck cross before it, and Sintram and Redclyffe on each side; and she brought it into the dressing-room with her in the morning, setting it up opposite to the sofa, before settling herself.
Her days were much alike. She felt far from well, or capable of exertion, and was glad it was thought right to keep her entirely upstairs; she only wished to spare her mother anxiety, by being submissive to her care, in case these cares should be the last for her. She did not dwell on the future, nor ask herself whether she looked for life or death. Guy had bidden her not desire the last, and she believed she did not form a wish; but there was repose to her in the belief that she ought not to conceal from herself that there was more than ordinary risk, and that it was right to complete all her affairs in this world, and she was silent when her mother tried to interest her in prospects that might cheer her; as if afraid to fasten on them, and finding more peace in entire submission, than in feeding herself on hope that must be coupled with fear.
Christmas-day was not allowed to pass without being a festival for her, in her quiet room, where she lay, full of musings on his lonely Christmas night last year, his verses folded among her precious books, and the real joy of the season more within her grasp than in the turmoil of last year. She was not afraid now to let herself fancy his voice in the Angel’s Song, and the rainbow was shining on her cloud.
CHAPTER 38
The coldness from my heart is gone,
But still the weight is there,
And thoughts which I abhor will come
To tempt me to despair.
—SOUTHEY
Amabel’s one anxiety was for Philip. For a long time nothing was heard of him at Hollywell, and she began to fear that he might have been less fit to take care of himself than he had persuaded her to believe. When at length tidings reached them, it was through the De Courcys. ‘Poor Morville,’ wrote Maurice, ‘had been carried ashore at Corfu, in the stupor of a second attack of fever. He had been in extreme danger for some time, and though now on the mend, was still unable to give any account of himself.’
In effect, it was a relapse of the former disease, chiefly affecting the brain, and his impatience to leave Recoara, and free himself from Arnaud, had been a symptom of its approach, though it fortunately did not absolutely overpower him till after he had embarked for Corfu, and was in the way to be tended with the greatest solicitude. Long after the fever was subdued, and his strength returning, his mind was astray, and even when torturing delusions ceased, and he resumed the perception of surrounding objects, memory and reflection wavered in dizzy confusion, more distressing than either his bodily weakness, or the perpetual pain in his head, which no remedy could relieve.
The first date to which he could afterwards recur, though for more than a week he had apparently been fully himself, was a time when he was sitting in an easy-chair by the window, obliged to avert his heavy eyes from the dazzling waters of the Corcyran bay, where Ulysses’ transformed ship gleamed in the sunshine, and the rich purple hills of Albania sloped upwards in the distance. James Thorndale was, as usual, with him, and was explaining that there had been a consultation between the doctor and the colonel, and they had decided that as there was not much chance of restoring his health in that climate in the spring.
‘Spring!’ he interrupted, with surprise and eagerness, ‘Is it spring?’
‘Hardly—except that there is no winter here. This is the 8th of January.’
He let his head fall on his hand again, and listened with indifference when told he was to be sent to England at once, under the care of his servant, Bolton, and Mr. Thorndale himself, who was resolved to see him safe in his sister’s hands. He made no objection; he had become used to be passive, and one place was much the same to him as another; so he merely assented, without a question about the arrangements. Presently, however, he looked up, and inquired for his letters. Though he had done so before, the request had always been evaded, until now he spoke in a manner which decided his friend on giving him all except one with broad black edges, and Broadstone post-mark; the effect of which, it was thought, might be very injurious to his shattered nerves and spirits.
However, he turned over the other letters without interest, just glancing languidly through them, looked disappointed, and exclaimed—
‘None from Hollywell! Has nothing been heard from them? Thorndale, I insist on knowing whether De Courcy has heard anything of Lady Morville.’
‘He has heard of her arrival in England.’
‘My sister mentions that—more than two months ago—I can hardly believe she has not written, if she was able. She promised, yet how can I expect—’ then interrupting himself, he added, authoritatively, ‘Thorndale, is there no letter for me? I see there is. Let me have it.’
His friend could not but comply, and had no reason to regret having done so; for after reading it twice, though he sighed deeply, and the tears were in his eyes, he was more calm and less oppressed than he had been at any time since his arrival in Corfu. He was unable to write, but Colonel Deane had undertaken to write to Mrs. Henley to announce his coming; and as the cause of his silence must be known at Hollywell, he resolved to let Amabel’s letter wait for a reply till his arrival in England.
It was on a chilly day in February that Mrs. Henley drove to the station to meet her brother, looking forward with a sister’s satisfaction to nursing his recovery, and feeling (for she had a heart, after all) as if it was a renewal of the days, which she regarded with a tenderness mixed with contempt, when all was confidence between the brother and sister, the days of nonsense and romance. She hoped that now poor Philip, who had acted hastily on his romance, and ruined his own prospects for her sake in his boyish days, had a chance of having it all made up to him, and reigning at Redclyffe according to her darling wish.
As she anxiously watched the arrival of the train, she recognized Mr. Thorndale, whom she had known in his school-days as Philip’s protege—but could that be her brother? It was his height, indeed; but his slow weary step as he crossed the platform, and left the care of his baggage to others, was so unlike his prompt, independent air, that she could hardly believe it to be himself, till, with his friend, he actually advanced to the carriage, and then she saw far deeper traces of illness than she was prepared for. A confusion of words took place; greetings on one hand, and partings on the other, for James Thorndale was going on by the train, and made only a few minutes’ halt in which to assure Mrs. Henley that though the landing and the journey had knocked up his patient to-day, he was much better since leaving Corfu, and to beg Philip to write as soon as possible. The bell rang, he rushed back, and was whirled away.
‘Then you are better,’ said Mrs. Henley, anxiously surveying her brother. ‘You are sadly altered! You must let us take good care of you.’
‘Thank you! I knew you would be ready to receive me, though I fear I am not very good company.’
‘Say no more, my dearest brother. You know both Dr. Henley and myself have made it our first object that our house should be your home.’
‘Thank you.’
‘This salubrious air must benefit you,’ she added. ‘How thin you are! Are you very much fatigued?’
‘Rather,’ said Philip, who was leaning back wearily; but the next moment he exclaimed, ‘What do you hear from Hollywell?’
‘There is no news yet.’
‘Do you know how she is? When did you hear of her?’
‘About a week ago; when she wrote to inquire for you.’
‘She did? What did she say of herself?’
‘Nothing particular, poor little thing; I believe she is always on the sofa. My aunt would like nothing so well as making a great fuss about her.’
‘Have you any objection to show me her letter?’ said Philip, unable to bear hearing Amabel thus spoken of, yet desirous to learn all he could respecting her.
‘I have not preserved it,’ was the answer. ‘My correspondence is so extensive that there would be no limit to the accumulation if I did not destroy the trivial letters.’
There was a sudden flush on Philip’s pale face that caused his sister to pause in her measured, self-satisfied speech, and ask if he was in pain.
‘No,’ he replied, shortly, and Margaret pondered on his strange manner, little guessing what profanation her mention of Amabel’s letter had seemed to him, or how it jarred on him to hear this exaggerated likeness of his own self-complacent speeches.
She was much shocked and grieved to see him so much more unwell than she had expected. He was unfit for anything but to go to bed on his arrival. Dr. Henley said the system had received a severe shock, and it would be long before the effects would be shaken off; but that there was no fear but his health would be completely restored if he would give himself entire rest.
There was no danger that Margaret would not lavish care enough on her brother. She waited on him in his room all the next day, bringing him everything he could want, and trying to make him come down-stairs, for she thought sitting alone there very bad for his spirits; but he said he had a letter to write, and very curious she was to know why he was so long doing it, and why he did not tell her to whom it was addressed. However, she saw when it was put into the post-bag, that it was for Lady Morville.
At last, too late to see any of the visitors who had called to inquire, when the evening had long closed in, she had the satisfaction of seeing Philip enter the drawing-room, and settling him in the most comfortable of her easy-chairs on one side of the fire to wait till the Doctor returned for dinner. The whole apartment was most luxurious, spacious, and richly furnished; the fire, in its brilliant steel setting, glancing on all around, and illuminating her own stately presence, and rich glace silk, as she sat opposite her brother cutting open the leaves of one of the books of the club over which she presided. She felt that this was something like attaining one of the objects for which she used to say and think she married,—namely, to be able to receive her brother in a comfortable home. If only he would but look more like himself.
‘Do you like a cushion for your head, Philip? Is it better?’
‘Better since morning, thank you.’
‘Did those headaches come on before your second illness?’
‘I can’t distinctly remember.’
‘Ah! I cannot think how the Edmonstones could leave you. I shall always blame them for that relapse.’
‘It had nothing to do with it. Their remaining was impossible.’
‘On Amabel’s account? No, poor thing, I don’t blame her, for she must have been quite helpless; but it was exactly like my aunt, to have but one idea at a time. Charles used to be the idol, and now it is Amy, I suppose.’
‘If anything could have made it more intolerable for me, it would have been detaining them there for my sake, at such a time.’
‘Ah! I felt a great deal for you. You must have been very sorry for that poor little Amy. She was very kind in writing while you were ill. How did she contrive, poor child? I suppose you took all the head work for her?’
‘I? I was nothing but a burden.’
‘Were you still so very ill?’ said Margaret, tenderly. ‘I am sure you must have been neglected.’
‘Would that I had!’ muttered Philip, so low that she did not catch the words. Then aloud,—‘No care could have been greater than was taken for me. It was as if no one had been ill but myself, and the whole thought of every one had been for me.’
‘Then Amabel managed well, poor thing! We do sometimes see those weak soft characters—’
‘Sister!’ he interrupted.’
‘Have not you told me so yourself?’
‘I was a fool, or worse,’ said he, in a tone of suffering. ‘No words can describe what she proved herself.’
‘Self-possessed? energetic?’ asked Mrs. Henley, with whom those were the first of qualities; and as her brother paused from repugnance to speak of Amabel to one so little capable of comprehending her, she proceeded: ‘No doubt she did the best she could, but she must have been quite inexperienced. It was a very young thing in the poor youth to make her executrix. I wonder the will was valid; but I suppose you took care of that.’
‘I did nothing.’
‘Did you see it?’
‘My uncle showed it to me.’
‘Then you can tell me what I want to hear, for no one has told me anything. I suppose my uncle is to be guardian?’
‘No; Lady Morville.’
‘You don’t mean it? Most lover-like indeed. That poor girl to manage that great property? Everything left to her!’ said Mrs. Henley, continuing her catechism in spite of the unwillingness of his replies. ‘Were there any legacies? I know of Miss Wellwood’s.’
‘That to Dixon’s daughter, and my own,’ he answered.
‘Yours? How was it that I never heard of it? What is it?’
‘Ten thousand,’ said Philip, sadly.
‘I am delighted to hear it!’ cried Margaret. ‘Very proper of Sir Guy—very proper indeed, poor youth. It is well thought of to soften the disappointment.’
Philip started forward. ‘Disappointment!’ exclaimed he, with horror.
‘You need not look as if I wished to commit murder,’ said his sister, smiling. ‘Have you forgotten that it depends on whether it is a son or daughter?’
His dismay was not lessened. ‘Do you mean to say that this is to come on me if the child is a daughter?’
‘Ah! you were so young when the entail was made, that you knew nothing of it. Female heirs were expressly excluded. There was some aunt whom old Sir Guy passed over, and settled the property on my father and you, failing his own male heirs.’
‘No one would take advantage of such a chance,’ said Philip.
‘Do not make any rash resolutions, my dear brother, whatever you do,’ said Margaret. ‘You have still the same fresh romantic generous spirit of self-sacrifice that is generally so soon worn out, but you must not let it allow you—’
‘Enough of this,’ said Philip, hastily, for every word was a dagger.
‘Ah! you are right not to dwell on the uncertainty. I am almost sorry I told you,’ said Margaret. ‘Tell me about Miss Wellwood’s legacy,’ she continued, desirous of changing the subject. ‘I want to know the truth of it, for every one is talking of it.‘’How comes the world to know of it?’
‘There have been reports ever since his death, and now it has been paid, whatever it is, on Lady Morville’s coming of age. Do you know what it is? The last story I was told was, that it was £2O,OOO, to found a convent to pray for his grand—’
‘Five thousand for her hospital,’ interrupted Philip. ‘Sister!’ he added; speaking with effort, ‘it was for that hospital that he made the request for which we persecuted him.’
‘Ah! I thought so, I could have told you so!’ cried Margaret, triumphant in her sagacity, but astonished, as her brother started up and stood looking at her, as if he could hardly resolve to give credit to her words.
‘You—thought—so,’ he repeated slowly.
‘I guessed it from the first. He was always with that set, and I thought it a very bad thing for him; but as it was only a guess, it was not worth while to mention it: besides, the cheque seemed full evidence. It was the general course, not the individual action.’
‘If you thought so, why not mention it to me? Oh! sister, what would you not have spared me!’
‘I might have done so if it had appeared that it might lead to his exculpation, but you were so fully convinced that his whole course confirmed the suspicions, that a mere vague idea was not worth dwelling on. Your general opinion, of him satisfied me.’
‘I cannot blame you,’ was all his reply, as he sat down again, with his face averted from the light.
And Mrs. Henley was doubtful whether he meant that she had been judicious! She spoke again, unconscious of the agony each word inflicted.
‘Poor youth! we were mistaken in those facts, and of course, all is forgiven and forgotten now; but he certainly had a tremendous temper. I shall never forget that exhibition. Perhaps poor Amabel is saved much unhappiness.’
‘Once for all,’ said Philip, sternly, ‘let me never hear you speak of him thus. We were both blind to a greatness of soul and purity of heart that we shall never meet again. Yours was only prejudice; mine I must call by a darker name. Remember, that he and his wife are only to be spoken of with reverence.’
He composed himself to silence; and Margaret, after looking at him for some moments in wonder, began in a sort of exculpatory tone:
‘Of course we owe him a great deal of gratitude. It was very kind and proper to come to you when you were ill, and his death must have been a terrible shock. He was a fine young man; amiable, very attractive in manner.’
‘No more!’ muttered Philip.
‘That, you always said of him,’ continued she, not hearing, ‘but you have no need to reproach yourself. You always acted the part of a true friend, did full justice to his many good qualities, and only sought his real good.’
‘Every word you speak is the bitterest satire on me,’ said Philip, goaded into rousing himself for a moment. ‘Say no more, unless you would drive me distracted!’
Margaret was obliged to be silent, and marvel, while her brother sat motionless, leaning back in his chair, till Dr. Henley came in; and after a few words to him, went on talking to his wife, till dinner was announced. Philip went with them into the dining-room, but had scarcely sat down before he said he could not stay, and returned to the drawing-room sofa. He said he only wanted quiet and darkness, and sent his sister and her husband back to their dinner.
‘What has he been doing?’ said the Doctor; ‘here is his pulse up to a hundred again. How can he have raised it?’
‘He only came down an hour ago, and has been sitting still ever since.’
‘Talking?’
‘Yes; and there, perhaps, I was rather imprudent. I did not know he could so little bear to hear poor Sir Guy’s name mentioned; and, besides, he did not know, till I told him, that he had so much chance of Redclyffe. He did not know the entail excluded daughters.’
‘Did he not! That accounts for it. I should like to see the man who could hear coolly that he was so near such a property. This suspense is unlucky just now; very much against him. You must turn his thoughts from it as much as possible.’
All the next day, Mrs. Henley wondered why her brother’s spirits were so much depressed, resisting every attempt to amuse or cheer them; but, on the third, she thought some light was thrown on the matter. She was at breakfast with the Doctor when the post came in, and there was a black-edged letter for Captain Morville, evidently from Amabel. She took it up at once to his room. He stretched out his hand for it eagerly, but laid it down, and would not open it while she was in the room. The instant she was gone, however, he broke the seal and read:—
‘Hollywell, February 20th.
‘MY DEAR PHILIP,—Thank you much for writing to me. It was a great comfort to see your writing again, and to hear of your being safe in our own country. We had been very anxious about you, though we did not hear of your illness till the worst was over. I am very glad you are at St. Mildred’s, for I am sure Margaret must be very careful of you, and Stylehurst air must be good for you. Every one here is well; Charles growing almost active, and looking better than I ever saw him. I wish I could tell you how nice and quiet a winter it has been; it has been a great blessing to me in every way, so many things have come to me to enjoy. Mr. Ross has come to me every Sunday, and often in the week, and has been so very kind. I think talking to him will be a great pleasure to you when you are here again. You will like to hear that Mr. Shene has sent me the picture, and the pleasure it gives me increases every day. Indeed, I am so well off in every way, that you must not grieve yourself about me, though I thank you very much for what you say. Laura reads to me all the evening from dinner to tea. I am much better than I was in the winter, and am enjoying the soft spring air from the open window, making it seem as if it was much later in the year. ‘Good-bye, my dear cousin; may God bless and comfort you. Remember, that after all, it was God’s will, not your doing; and therefore, as he said himself, all is as it should be, and so it will surely be.
‘Your affectionate cousin,‘AMABEL F. MORVILLE.’
Childishly simple as this letter might be called, with its set of facts without comment, and the very commonplace words of consolation, it spoke volumes to Philip of the spirit in which it was written—resignation, pardon, soothing, and a desire that her farewell, perhaps her last, should carry with it a token of her perfect forgiveness. Everything from Amabel did him good; and he was so perceptibly better, that his sister exclaimed, when she was next alone with Dr. Henley, ‘I understand it all, poor fellow; I thought long ago, he had some secret attachment; and now I see it was to Amabel Edmonstone.’
‘To Lady Morville?’
