Kitabı oku: «The Heir of Redclyffe», sayfa 41
‘Good night, then, dear, dear Laura. I am so glad your trouble is over, and you have him again!’ whispered Amabel, with her parting kiss; and Laura went away, better able to hope, to pray, and to rest, than she could have thought possible when she left the drawing-room.
‘Poor dear Laura,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, sighing; ‘I hope he will soon be better.’
‘Has it been very uncomfortable?’
‘I can’t say much for it, my dear. He was suffering terribly with his head, so that I should have been quite alarmed if he had not said it was apt to get worse in the evening; and she, poor thing, was only watching him. However, it is a comfort to have matters settled; and papa and Charlie are well pleased with him. But I must not keep you awake after driving Laura away. You are not over-tired to-night I hope, my dear?’
‘Oh, no; only sleepy. Good night, dearest mamma.’
‘Good night, my own Amy;’ then, as Amy put back the coverings to show the little face nestled to sleep on her bosom, ‘good night, you little darling! don’t disturb your mamma. How comfortable you look! Good night, my dearest!’
Mrs. Edmonstone looked for a moment, while trying to check the tears that came at the thought of the night, one brief year ago, when she left Amy sleeping in the light of the Easter moon. Yet the sense of peace and serenity that had then given especial loveliness to the maiden’s chamber on that night, was there still with the young widow. It was dim lamplight now that beamed on the portrait of her husband, casting on it the shade of the little wooden cross in front, while she was shaded by the white curtains drawn from her bed round the infant’s little cot, so as to shut them both into the quiet twilight, where she lay with an expression of countenance that, though it was not sorrow, made Mrs. Edmonstone more ready to weep than if it had been; so with her last good night she left her.
And Amabel always liked to be shut in by herself, dearly as she loved them all, and mamma especially; there was always something pleasant in being able to return to her own world, to rest in the thoughts of her husband, and in the possession of the little unconscious creature that had come to inhabit that inner world of hers, the creature that was only his and hers.
She had from the first always felt herself less lonely when quite alone, before with his papers, and now with his child; and could Mrs. Edmonstone have seen her face, she would have wept and wondered more, as Amy fondled and hushed her babe, whispering to it fond words which she could never have uttered in the presence of any one who could understand them, and which had much of her extreme youthfulness in them. Not one was so often repeated or so endearing as ‘Guy’s baby! Guy’s own dear little girl!’ It did not mean half so much when she called it her baby; and she loved to tell the little one that her father had been the best and the dearest, but he was gone away, and would she be contented to be loving and good with only her mother to take care of her, and tell her, as well as she could, what a father hers was, when she was old enough to know about him?
To-night, Amy told her much in that soft, solemn, murmuring tone, about what was to befall her to-morrow, and the great blessings to be given to her, and how the poor little fatherless one would be embraced in the arms of His mercy, and received by her great Father in heaven:—‘Ay, and brought nearer to your own papa, and know him in some inner way, and he will know his little child then, for you will be as good and pure and bright as he, and you will belong to the great communion of saints to-morrow, you precious little one, and be so much nearer to him as you will be so much better than I. Oh! baby, if we can but both endure to the end!’
With such half-uttered words, Amabel Morville slept the night before her babe’s christening.
CHAPTER 41
A stranger’s roof to hold thy head,
A stranger’s foot thy grave to tread;
Desert and rock, and Alp and sea,
Spreading between thy home and thee.
—SEWELL
Mary Ross was eager for the first report from Hollywell the next morning, and had some difficulty in keeping her attention fixed on her class at school. Laura and Charlotte came in together in due time, and satisfied her so far as to tell her that Amy was very well.
‘Is Captain Morville come?’ thought Mary. ‘No, I cannot guess by Laura’s impressive face. Never mind, Charles will tell me all between services.’
The first thing she saw on coming out of school was the pony carriage, with Charles and Captain Morville himself. Charlotte, who was all excitement, had time to say, while her sister was out of hearing,—
‘It is all made up now, Mary, and I really am very sorry for Philip.’
It was fortunate that Mary understood the amiable meaning this speech was intended to convey, and she began to enter into its grounds in the short conference after church, when she saw the alteration in the whole expression of countenance.
‘Yes,’ said Charles, who as usual remained at the vicarage during the two services, and who perceived what passed in her mind, ‘if it is any satisfaction to you to have a good opinion of your fellow-sponsor, I assure you that I am converted to Amy’s opinion. I do believe the black dog is off his back for good and all.’
‘I never saw any one more changed,’ said Mary.
‘Regularly tamed,’ said Charles. He is something more like his old self to-day than last night, and yet not much. He was perfectly overpowered then—so knocked up that there was no judging of him. To-day he has all his sedateness and scrupulous attention, but all like a shadow of former time—not a morsel of sententiousness, and seeming positively grateful to be treated in the old fashion.’
‘He looks very thin and pale. Do you think him recovered?’
‘A good way from it,’ said Charles. ‘He is pretty well to-day, comparatively, though that obstinate headache hangs about him. If this change last longer than that and his white looks, I shall not even grudge him the sponsorship Amy owed me.’
‘Very magnanimous!’ said Mary. ‘Poor Laura! I am glad her suspense is over. I wondered to see her at school.’
‘They are very sad and sober lovers, and it is the best way of not making themselves unbearable, considering—Well, that was a different matter. How little we should have believed it, if any one had told us last year what would be the state of affairs to-day. By the bye, Amy’s godson is christened to-day.’
‘Who?’
‘Didn’t you hear that the Ashfords managed to get Amy asked if she would dislike their calling their boy by that name we shall never hear again, and she was very much pleased, and made offer in her own pretty way to be godmother. I wonder how Markham endures it! I believe he is nearly crazy. He wrote me word he should certainly have given up all concern with Redclyffe, but for the especial desire of—.What a state of mind he will be in, when he remembers how he has been abusing the captain to me!’
The afternoon was fresh and clear, and there was a spring brightness in the sunshine that Amabel took as a greeting to her little maiden, as she was carried along the churchyard path. Many an eye was bent on the mother and child, especially on the slight form, unseen since she had last walked down the aisle, her arm linked in her bridegroom’s.
‘Little Amy Edmonstone,’ as they had scarcely learnt to cease from calling her, before she was among them again, the widowed Lady Morville; and with those kind looks of compassion for her, were joined many affectionate mourning thoughts of the young husband and father, lying far away in his foreign grave, and endeared by kindly remembrances to almost all present. There was much of pity for his unconscious infant, and tears were shed at the thought of what the wife must be suffering; but if the face could have been seen beneath the thick crape folds of her veil, it would have shown no tears—only a sweet, calm look of peace, and almost gladness.
The babe was on her knees when the time for the christening came; she was awake, and now and then making a little sound and as she was quieter with her than any one else, Amabel thought she might herself carry her to the font.
It was deep, grave happiness to stand there, with her child in her arms, and with an undefined sense that she was not alone as if in some manner her husband was present with her; praying with her prayers, and joining in offering up their treasure; when the babe was received into Mr. Ross’s arms, and Amy, putting back her veil, gazed up with a wistful but serene look.
‘To her life’s end?’ Therewith came a vision of the sunrise at Recoara, and the more glorious dawn that had shone in Guy’s dying smile, and Amabel knew what would be her best prayer for his little Mary Verena, as she took her back, the drops glistening on her brow, her eyes open, and arms outspread. It was at that moment that Amabel was first thrilled with a look in her child that was like its father. She had earnestly and often sought a resemblance without being able honestly to own that she perceived any; but now, though she knew not in what it consisted, there was something in that baby face that recalled him more vividly than picture or memory.
‘Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.’
Those words seemed to come from her own heart. She had brought Guy’s daughter to be baptized, and completed his work of pardon, and she had a yearning to be departing in peace, whither her sunshine was gone. But he had told her not to wish that his child should be motherless; she had to train her to be fit to meet him. The sunshine was past, but she had plenty to do in the shade, and it was for his sake. She would, therefore, be content to remain to fulfil her duties among the dear ones to whom he had trusted her for comfort, and with the sense of renewed communion with him that she had found in returning again to church.
So felt Amabel, as she entered into the calm that followed the one year in which she had passed through the great events of life, and known the chief joy and deepest grief that she could ever experience.
It was far otherwise with her sister. Laura’s term of trouble seemed to be ending, and the spring of life beginning to dawn on her.
Doubt and fear were past, she and Philip were secure of each other, he was pardoned, and they could be together without apprehension, or playing tricks with their consciences; but she had as yet scarcely been able to spend any time with him; and as Charles said, their ways were far more grave and less lover-like than would have seemed natural after their long separation.
In truth, romantic and uncalculating as their attachment was, they never had been lover-like. They had never had any fears or doubts; her surrender of her soul had been total, and every thought, feeling, and judgment had taken its colour from him as entirely as if she had been a wife of many years’ standing. She never opened her mind to perceive that he had led her to act wrongly, and all her unhappiness had been from anxiety for him, not repentance on her own account; for so complete was her idolatry, that she entirely overlooked her failure in duty to her parents.
It took her by surprise when, as they set out together that evening to walk home from East-hill, he said, as soon as they were apart from the village—
‘Laura, you have more to forgive than all.’
‘Don’t, speak so, Philip, pray don’t. Do you think I would not have borne far more unhappiness willingly for your sake? Is it not all forgotten as if it had not been?’
‘It is not unhappiness I meant,’ he replied, ‘though I cannot bear to think of what you have undergone. Unhappiness enough have I caused indeed. But I meant, that you have to forgive the advantage I took of your reliance on me to lead you into error, when you were too young to know what it amounted to.’
‘It was not an engagement,’ faltered Laura.
‘Laura, don’t, for mercy’s sake, recall my own hateful sophistries,’ exclaimed Philip, as if unable to control the pain it gave him; ‘I have had enough of that from my sister;’ then softening instantly: ‘it was self-deceit; a deception first of myself, then of you. You had not experience enough to know whither I was leading you, till I had involved you; and when the sight of death showed me the fallacy of the salve to my conscience, I had nothing for it but to confess, and leave you to bear the consequences. O Laura! when I think of my conduct towards you, it seems even worse than that towards—towards your brother-in-law!’
His low, stern tone of bitter suffering and self-reproach was something new and frightful to Laura. She clung to his arm and tried to say—‘O, don’t speak in that way! You know you meant the best. You could not help being mistaken.’
‘If I did know any such thing, Laura! but the misery of perceiving that my imagined anxiety for his good,—his good, indeed! was but a cloak for my personal enmity—you can little guess it.’
Laura tried to say that appearances were against Guy, but he would not hear.
‘If they were, I triumphed in them. I see now that a shade of honest desire to see him exculpated would have enabled me to find the clue. If I had gone to St. Mildred’s at once—interrogated him as a friend—seen Wellwood—but dwelling on the ifs of the last two years can bring nothing but distraction,’ he added, pausing suddenly.
‘And remember,’ said Laura, ‘that dear Guy himself was always grateful to you. He always upheld that you acted for his good. Oh! the way he took it was the one comfort I had last year.’
‘The acutest sting, and yet the only balm,’ murmured Philip; ‘see, Laura,’ and he opened the first leaf of Guy’s prayer-book, which he had been using at the christening.
A whispered ‘Dear Guy!’ was the best answer she could make, and the tears were in her eyes. ‘He was so very kind to me, when he saw me that unhappy wedding-day.’
‘Did Amy tell you his last words to me?’
‘No,’ said Laura.
‘God bless you and my sister!’ he repeated, so low that she could hardly hear.
‘Amy left that for you to tell,’ said Laura, as her tears streamed fast. How can we speak of her, Philip?’
‘Only as an angel of pardon and peace!’ he answered.
‘I don’t know how to tell you of all her kindness,’ said Laura; ‘half the bitterness of it seemed to be over when once she was in the house again, and, all the winter, going into her room was like going into some peaceful place where one must find comfort.’
‘“Spirits of peace, where are ye” I could have said, when I saw her drive away at Recoara, and carry all good angels with her except those that could not but hover round that grave.’
‘How very sad it must have been! Did—’
‘Don’t speak of it; don’t ask me of it’ said Philip, hastily. ‘There is nothing in my mind but a tumult of horror and darkness that it is madness to remember. Tell me of yourself—tell me that you have not been hurt by all that I have brought on you.’
‘Oh, no!’ said Laura ‘besides, that is all at an end.’
‘All an end! Laura, I fear in joining your fate to mine, you will find care and grief by no means at an end. You must be content to marry a saddened, remorseful man, broken down in health and spirits, his whole life embittered by that fatal remembrance, forced to endure an inheritance that seems to have come like the prosperity of the wicked. Yet you are ready to take all this? Then, Laura, that precious, most precious love, that has endured through all, will be the one drop of comfort through the rest of my life.
She could but hear such words with thrills of rejoicing affection; and on they walked, Laura trembling and struck with sorrow at the depth of repentance he now and then disclosed, though not in the least able to fathom it, thinking it all his nobleness of mind, justifying him to herself, idolizing him too much to own he had ever been wrong; yet the innate power of tact and sympathy teaching her no longer to combat his self-reproaches, and repeat his former excuses, but rather to say something soothing and caressing, or put in some note of thankfulness and admiration of Amy and Guy. This was the best thing she could do for him, as she was not capable, like Amy, of acknowledging that his repentance was well-founded. She was a nurse, not a physician, to the wounded spirit; but a very good and gentle nurse she was, and the thorough enjoyment of her affection and sympathy, the opening into confidence, and the freedom from doubt and suspense, were comforts that were doing him good every hour.
The christening party consisted only of the Rosses, and Dr. Mayerne, who had joined them at East-hill church, and walked home with Mr. Edmonstone. They could not have been without him, so grateful were they for his kindness all through their anxious winter, and Mr. Edmonstone was well pleased to tell him on the way home that they might look to having a wedding in the family; it had been a very long attachment, constancy as good as a story, and he could all along have told what was the matter, when mamma was calling in the doctor to account for Laura’s looking pale.
The doctor was not surprised at the news, for perhaps he, too, had had some private theory about those pale looks; but, knowing pretty well the sentiments Charles had entertained the winter before last, he was curious to find out how he regarded this engagement. Charles spoke of it in the most ready cordial way. ‘Well, doctor, so you have heard our news! I flatter myself we have as tall and handsome a pair of lovers to exhibit here, as any in the United Kingdom, when we have fattened him a little into condition.’
‘Never was there a better match,’ said Dr. Mayerne. ‘Made for each other all along. One could not see them without feeling it was the first chapter of a novel.’
When Mrs. Edmonstone came in, the doctor was a little taken aback. He thought her mind must be with poor Sir Guy, and was afraid the lovers had been in such haste as to pain Lady Morville; for there was a staidness and want of “epanchement du coeur” of answering that was very unlike her usual warm manner. At dinner, Mr. Edmonstone was in high spirits, delighted at Amy’s recovery, happy to have a young man about the house again, charmed to see two lovers together, pleased that Laura should be mistress of Redclyffe, since it could not belong to Amy’s child; altogether, as joyous as ever. His wife, being at ease about Amy, did her best to smile, and even laugh, though sad at heart all the time, as she missed the father from the christening feast, and thought how happy she had been in that far different reunion last year. It might be the same with Charles; but the outward effect was exhibited in lively nonsense; Charlotte’s spirits were rising fast, and only Philip and Laura themselves were grave and silent, she, the more so, because she was disappointed to find that the one walk back from East-hill, much as he had enjoyed it, had greatly tired Philip. However, the others talked enough without them; and Mr. Edmonstone was very happy, drinking the health of Miss Morville, and himself carrying a bit of the christening cake to the mamma in the drawing-room.
There sat Amabel by the fire, knowing that from henceforth she must exert herself to take part in the cheerfulness of the house, and willing to join the external rejoicing in her child’s christening, or at least not to damp it by remaining up-stairs. Yet any one but Mr. Edmonstone would have seen more sadness than pleasure in the sweet smile with which she met and thanked him; but they were cheerful tones in which she replied, and in her presence everything was hushed and gentle, subdued, yet not mournful. The spirit of that evening was only recognized after it was past, and then it ever grew fairer and sweeter in recollection, so as never to be forgotten by any of those who shared it.
CHAPTER 42
She was not changed when sorrow came,
That awed the sternest men;
It rather seemed she kept her flame
To comfort us till then.
But sorrow passed, and others smiled
With happiness once more;
And she drew back the spirit mild
She still had been before.
—S. R.
Philip’s marriage could not take place at once. No one said, but every one felt, that it must not be talked of till the end of Amabel’s first year of widowhood; and in the meantime Philip remained at Hollywell, gaining strength every day, making more progress in one week than he had done in six at St. Mildred’s, finding that, as his strength returned, his mind and memory regained their tone, and he was as capable as ever of applying to business, and, above all, much settled and comforted by some long conversations with Mr. Ross.
Still he could not endure the thought of being at Redclyffe. The business connected with it was always performed with pain and dislike, and he shrank with suffering at every casual mention of his going thither. Mrs. Edmonstone began to wonder whether he could mean to linger at Hollywell all the summer, and Amabel had some fears that it would end in his neglecting Redclyffe, till a letter arrived from Lord Thorndale, saying that his brother, the member for Moorworth, had long been thinking of giving up his seat, and latterly had only waited in hopes that the succession at Redclyffe might come to Philip Morville. Moorworth was entirely under the Thorndale and Morville interest, and Lord Thorndale wrote to propose that Philip should come forward at once, inviting him to Thorndale instead of going to his own empty house.
To be in parliament had been one of the favourite visions of Philip’s youth, and for that very reason he hesitated, taking it as one of the strange fulfilments of his desires that had become punishments. He could not but feel that as this unhappy load of wealth had descended on him, he was bound to make it as beneficial as he could to others, and not seeking for rest or luxury, to stand in the gap where every good man and true was needed. But still he dreaded his old love of distinction. He disliked a London life for Laura, and he thought that, precarious as his health had become, it might expose her to much anxiety, since he was determined that if he undertook it at all, he would never be an idle member.
It ended in his referring the decision to Laura, who, disliking London, fearful for his health, eager for his glory, and reluctant to keep back such a champion from the battle, was much perplexed, only desirous to say what he wished, yet not able to make out what that might be. She carried her doubts to Charles and Amabel, who both pronounced that the thought of going to Redclyffe seemed far worse for him than any degree of employment—that occupation of the mind was the best thing for his spirits; and ended by recommending that Dr. Mayerne should be consulted.
He was of the same opinion. He said a man could hardly have two fevers following, and one of them upon the brain, without having reason to remember them. That his constitution had been seriously weakened, and there was an excitability of brain and nerves which made care requisite; but depression of spirits was the chief thing to guard against, and a London life, provided he did not overwork himself, was better for him than solitude at Redclyffe.
Accordingly Philip went to Thorndale, and was returned for Moorworth without opposition. Markham sent his nephew to transact business with him at Thorndale, for he could not bear to meet him himself, and while there was any prospect of his coming to Redclyffe, walked about in paroxysms of grunting and ill-humour. The report that Mr. Morville was engaged to the other Miss Edmonstone did but render him more furious, for he regarded it as a sort of outrage to Lady Morville’s feelings that a courtship should be carried on in the house with her. She was at present the object of all his devoted affection for the family, and he would not believe, but that she had been as much disappointed at the birth of her daughter, as he was himself. He would not say one word against Mr. Morville, but looked and growled enough to make Mr. Ashford afraid that the new squire would find him very troublesome.
The Ashfords were in a state of mind themselves to think that Mr. Morville ought to be everything excellent to make up for succeeding Sir Guy; but having a very high opinion of him to begin with, they were very sorry to find all Redclyffe set against him. In common with the parish, they were very anxious for the first report of his arrival and at length he came. James Thorndale, as before, drove him thither, coming to the Ashfords while he was busy with Markham. He would not go up to the Park, he only went through some necessary business with Markham, and then walked down to the Cove, afterwards sitting for about ten minutes in Mrs. Ashford’s drawing-room.
The result of the visit was that old James Robinson reported that the new squire took on as much about poor Sir Guy as any one could do, and turned as pale as if he had been going into a swoon, when he spoke his name and gave Ben his message. And as to poor Ben, the old man said, he regularly did cry like a child, and small blame to him, to hear that Sir Guy had took thought of him at such a time and so far away; and he verily believed Ben could never take again to his bad ways, after such a message as that.
Markham was gruff with the Robinsons for some time after and was even heard to mutter something about worshipping the rising sun, an act of idolatry of which he could not be accused, since it was in the most grudging manner that he allowed, that Mr. Morville’s sole anxiety seemed to be to continue all Sir Guy had undertaken; while Mrs. Ashford, on the other hand was much affected by the account her cousin James had been giving her of the grief that he had suffered at Sir Guy’s death, his long illness, his loss of spirits, the reluctance he had shown to come here at all, and his present unconquerable dread of going to the Park.
He was soon after in London, where, as far as could be judged in such early days, he seemed likely to distinguish himself according to the fondest hopes that Margaret or Laura could ever have entertained. Laura was only afraid he was overworking himself, especially as, having at present little command of ready money, he lived in a small lodging, kept no horse, and did not enter into society; but she was reassured when he came to Hollywell for a day or two at Whitsuntide, not having indeed regained flesh or colour, but appearing quite well, in better spirits, and very eager about political affairs.
All would have been right that summer, but that, as Philip observed, the first evening of his arrival, Amabel was not looking as well as she had done at the time of the christening. She had, just after it, tried her strength and spirits too much, and had ever since been not exactly unwell, but sad and weary, more dejected than ever before, unable to bear the sight of flowers or the sound of music, and evidently suffering much under the recurrence of the season, which had been that of her great happiness—the summer sunshine, the long evenings, the nightingale’s songs. She was fatigued by the most trifling exertion, and seemed able to take interest in nothing but her baby, and a young widow in the village, who was in a decline; and though she was willing to do all that was asked of her, it was in a weary, melancholy manner, as if she had no peace but in being allowed to sit alone, drooping over her child.
From society she especially shrunk, avoiding every chance of meeting visitors, and distressed and harassed when her father brought home some of his casual dinner guests, and was vexed not to see her come into the drawing-room in the evening. If she did make the effort of coming, to please him, she was so sure to be the worse for it, that her mother would keep her up-stairs the next time, and try to prevent her from knowing that her father was put out, and declared it was nonsense to expect poor Amy to get up her spirits, while she never saw a living soul, and only sat moping in the dressing-room.
A large dinner-party did not interfere with her, for even he could not expect her to appear at it, and one of these he gave during Philip’s visit, for the pleasure of exhibiting such company as the M.P. for Moorworth. After dinner, Charlotte told Mary Ross to go and see Amy. Not finding her in the dressing-room, she knocked at her own door. ‘Come in,’ answered the low soft voice; and in the window, overhung by the long shoots of the roses, Amabel’s close cap and small head were seen against the deep-blue evening sky, as she sat in the summer twilight, her little one asleep in her cot.
‘Thank you for coming,’ said she. ‘I thought you would not mind sitting here with baby and me. I have sent Anne out walking.’
‘How pretty she looks!’ said Mary, stooping over the infant. ‘Sleep is giving her quite a colour; and how fast she grows!’
‘Poor little woman!’ said Amy, sighing.
‘Tired, Amy?’ said Mary, sitting down, and taking up the little lambswool shoe, that Amy had been knitting.
‘N—no, thank you,’ said Amy, with another sigh.
‘I am afraid you are. You have been walking to Alice Lamsden’s again.’
‘I don’t think that tires me. Indeed, I believe the truth is,’ and her voice sounded especially sad in the subdued tone in which she spoke, that she might not disturb the child, ‘I am not so much tired with what I do, which is little enough, as of the long, long life that is before me.’
Mary’s heart was full, but she did not show her thought otherwise than by a look towards the babe.
‘Yes, poor little darling,’ said Amabel, ‘I know there is double quantity to be done for her, but I am so sorry for her, when I think she must grow up without knowing him.’
‘She has you, though,’ Mary could not help saying, as she felt that Amabel was superior to all save her husband.
Perhaps Amy did not hear; she went up to the cot, and went on:—‘If he had but once seen her, if she had but had one kiss, one touch that I could tell her of by and by, it would not seem as if she was so very fatherless. Oh no, baby, I must wait, that you may know something about, him; for no one else can tell you so well what he was, though I can’t tell much!’ She presently returned to her seat. ‘No, I don’t believe I really wish I was like poor Alice,’ said she; ‘I hope not; I am sure I don’t for her sake. But, Mary, I never knew till I was well again how much I had reckoned on dying when she was born. I did not think I was wishing it, but it seemed likely, and I was obliged to arrange things in case of it. Then somehow, as he came back last spring, after that sad winter, it seemed as if this spring, though he would not come back to me, I might be going to him.’
