Kitabı oku: «The Heir of Redclyffe», sayfa 42
‘But then she comforted you.’
‘Yes, that she did, my precious one; I was so glad of her, it was a sort of having him again, and so it is still sometimes, and will be more so, I dare say. I am very thankful for her, indeed I am; and I hope I am not repining, for it does not signify after all, in the end, if I am weary and lonely sometimes. I wish I was sure it was not wrong. I know I don’t wish to alter things.’
‘No, I am sure you don’t.’
‘Ah!’ said Amabel, smiling, ‘it is only the old, silly little Amy that does feel such a heart-aching and longing for one glance of his eye, or touch of his hand, or sound of his foot in the passage. Oh, Mary, the worst of all is to wake up, after dreaming I have heard his voice. There is nothing for it but to take our baby and hold her very tight.’
‘Dearest Amy! But you are not blaming yourself for these feelings. It might be wrong to indulge them and foster them; but while you struggle with them, they can’t in themselves be wrong.’
‘I hope not,’ said Amabel pausing to think. ‘Yes, I have “the joy” at the bottom still; I know it is all quite right, and it came straight from heaven, as he said. I can get happy very often when I am by myself, or at church, with him; it is only when I miss his bright outside and can’t think myself into the inner part, that it is so forlorn and dreary. I can do pretty well alone. Only I wish I could help being so troublesome and disagreeable to everybody’ said Amy, concluding in a matter-of-fact tone.
‘My dear!’ said Mary, almost laughing.
‘It is so stupid of me to be always poorly, and making mamma anxious when there’s nothing the matter with me. And I know I am a check on them down-stairs—papa, and Charlotte, and all—they are very kind, considerate, and yet’—she paused—‘and it is a naughty feeling; but when I feel all those dear kind eyes watching me always, and wanting me to be happy, it is rather oppressive, especially when I can’t; but if I try not to disappoint them, I do make such a bad hand of it, and am sure to break down afterwards, and that grieves mamma all the more.’
‘It will be better when this time of year is over,’ said Mary.
‘Perhaps, yes. He always seemed to belong to summer days, and to come with them. Well, I suppose trials always come in a different shape from what one expects; for I used to think I could bear all the doom with him, but, I did not know it would be without him, and yet that is the best. Oh, baby!’
‘I should not have come to disturb her.’
‘No—never mind; she never settles fairly to sleep till we are shut in by ourselves. Hush! hush, darling—No? Will nothing do but being taken up? Well, then, there! Come, and show your godmamma what a black fringe those little wakeful eyes are getting.’
And when Mary went down it was with the conviction that those black eyelashes, too marked to be very pretty in so young a babe, were more of a comfort to Amabel than anything she could say.
The evening wore on, and at length Laura came into her sister’s room. She looked fagged and harassed, the old face she used to wear in the time of disguise and secrecy, Amabel asked if it had been a tiresome party.
‘Yes—no—I don’t know. Just like others,’ said Laura.
‘You are tired, at any rate,’ said Amabel. ‘You took too long a ride with Philip. I saw you come in very late.’
‘I am not in the least tired, thank you.’
‘Then he is,’ said Amabel. ‘I hope he has not one of his headaches again.’
‘No,’ said Laura, still in a dissatisfied, uncomfortable tone.
‘No? Dear Laura, I am sure there is something wrong;’ and with a little more of her winning, pleading kindness, she drew from Laura that Philip had told her she idolized him. He had told her so very gently and kindly, but he had said she idolized him in a manner that was neither good for herself nor him; and he went on to blame himself for it, which was what she could not bear. It had been rankling in her mind ever since that he had found fault with her for loving him so well, and it had made her very unhappy. She could not love him less, and how should she please him? She had much rather he had blamed her than himself.
‘I think I see what he means’ said Amy, thoughtfully. ‘He has grown afraid of himself, and afraid of being admired now.’
‘But how am I to help that, Amy?’ said Laura, with tears in her eyes: ‘he cannot help being the first, the very first of all with me—’
‘No, no,’ said Amy, quickly, ‘not the very first, or what would you do if you were to be—like me? Don’t turn away, dear Laura; I don’t think I over could bear this at all, if dear Guy had not kept it always before my eyes from the very first that we were to look to something else besides each other.’
‘Of course I meant the first earthly thing,’ said Laura; but it was not heartfelt—she knew she ought, therefore she thought she did.
‘And so,’ proceeded Amy, ‘I think if that other is first, it would make you have some other standard of right besides himself, then you would be a stay and help to him. I think that is what he means.’
‘Amy! let me ask you,’ said Laura, a little entreatingly, yet as if she must needs put the question—‘surely, you never thought Guy had faults?’
Her colour deepened. ‘Yes, Laura,’ she answered, firmly. ‘I could not have understood his repentance if I had not thought so. And, dear Laura, if you will forgive me for saying it, it would be much better for yourself and Philip if you would see the truth.’
‘I thought you forgave him,’ murmured Laura.
‘Oh, Laura! but does not that word “forgive” imply something? I could not have done anything to comfort him that day, if I had not believed he had something to be comforted for. It can’t be pleasant to him to see you think his repentance vain.’
‘It is noble and great.’
‘But if it was not real, it would be thrown away. Besides, dear Laura, do let me say this for once. If you would but understand that you let him lead you into what was not right, and be really sorry for that, and show mamma that you are, I do think it would all begin much more happily when you are married.’
‘I could never have told, till I was obliged to betray myself,’ said Laura. ‘You know, Amy, it was no engagement. We never wrote to each other, we had but one walk; it was no business of his to speak till he could hope for papa’s consent to our marriage. It would have been all confusion if he had told, and that would have been only that we had always loved each other with all our hearts, which every one knew before.’
‘Yet, Laura, it was what preyed on him when he thought he was dying.’
‘Because it was the only thing like a fault he could think of,’ said Laura, excited by this shade of blame to defend him vehemently—‘because his scruples are high and noble and generous.’
She spoke so eagerly, that the baby’s voice again broke on the conversation, and she was obliged to go away; but though her idolatry was complete, it did not seem to give full satisfaction or repose. As to Philip, though his love for her was unchanged, it now and then was felt, though not owned by him, that she was not fully a helpmeet, only a ‘Self’; not such a ‘Self’ as he had left at St. Mildred’s, but still reflecting on him his former character, instead of aiding him to a new one.
CHAPTER 43
But nature to its inmost part
Faith had refined; and to her heart
A peaceful cradle given,
Calm as the dew drops free to rest
Within a breeze-fanned rose’s breast
Till it exhales to heaven.
—WORDSWORTH
It had long been a promise that Mr. Edmonstone should take Charlotte to visit her grandmamma, in Ireland. They would have gone last autumn, but for Guy’s illness, and now Aunt Charlotte wrote to hasten the performance of the project. Lady Mabel was very anxious to see them, she said; and having grown much more infirm of late, seemed to think it would be the last meeting with her son. She talked so much of Mrs. Edmonstone and Laura, that it was plain that she wished extremely for a visit from them, though she did not like to ask it, in the present state of the family.
A special invitation was sent to Bustle; indeed, Charles said Charlotte could not have gone without his permission, for he reigned like a tyrant over her, evidently believing her created for no purpose but to wait on him, and take him to walk.
Laura was a great favourite at the cottage of Kilcoran, and felt she ought to offer to go. Philip fully agreed, and held out home hopes of following as soon as the session, was over, and he had been to Redclyffe about some business that had been deferred too long.
And now it appeared that Mr. Edmonstone had a great desire to take his wife, and she herself said, that under any other circumstances she should have been very desirous of going. She had not been to Ireland for fifteen years, and was sorry to have seen so little of her mother-in-law; and now that it had been proved that Charles could exist without her, she would not have hesitated to leave him, but for Amabel’s state of health and spirits, which made going from home out of the question.
Charles and Amabel did not think so. It was not to be endured, that when grandmamma wished for her, she should stay at home for them without real necessity; besides, the fatigue, anxiety, and sorrow she had undergone of late, had told on her, and had made her alter perceptibly, from being remarkably fresh and youthful, to be somewhat aged; and the change to a new scene, where she could not be distressing herself at every failure in cheerfulness of poor Amy’s, was just the thing to do her good.
Amabel was not afraid of the sole charge of Charles or of the baby, for she had been taught but too well to manage for herself, she understood Charles very well, and had too much quiet good sense to be fanciful about her very healthy baby. Though she was inexperienced, with old nurse hard by, and Dr. Mayerne at Broadstone, there was no fear of her not having good counsel enough. She was glad to be of some use, by enabling her mother to leave Charles, and her only fear was of being dull company for him; but as he was so kind as to bear it, she would do her best, and perhaps their neighbours would come and enliven him sometimes.
Charles threw his influence into the same scale. His affectionate observation had shown him that it oppressed Amabel’s spirits to be the object of such constant solicitude, and he was convinced it would be better for her, both to have some necessary occupation and to be free from that perpetual mournful watching of her mother’s that caused her to make the efforts to be cheerful which did her more harm than anything else.
To let her alone to look and speak as she pleased without the fear of paining and disappointing those she loved, keep the house quiet, and give her the employment of household cares and attending on himself, was, he thought, the best thing for her; and he was full of eagerness and pleasure at the very notion of being of service to her, if only by being good for nothing but to be waited on. He thought privately that the spring of his mother’s mind had been so much injured by the grief she had herself suffered for ‘her son Guy,’ her cruel disappointment in Laura, and the way in which she threw herself into all Amy’s affliction, that there was a general depression in her way of observing and attending Amy, which did further harm; and that to change the current of her thoughts, and bring her home refreshed and inspirited, would be the beginning of improvement in all. Or, as he expressed it to Dr. Mayerne, ‘We shall set off on a new tack.’
His counsel and Mr. Edmonstone’s wishes at length decided mamma, on condition that Mary Ross and Dr. Mayerne would promise to write on alternate weeks a full report, moral and physical, as Charles called it. So in due time the goods were packed, Mrs. Edmonstone cried heartily over the baby, advised Amabel endlessly about her, and finally looked back through her tears, as she drove away, to see Charles nodding and waving his hand at the bay-window, and Amabel standing with her parting smile and good-bye on the steps.
The reports, moral and physical, proved that Charles had judged wisely. Amabel was less languid as she had more cause for exertion, and seemed relieved by the absence of noise and hurry, spending more time down-stairs, and appearing less weary in the evening. She still avoided the garden, but she began to like short drives with her brother in the pony-carriage, when he drove on in silence, and let her lean back and gaze up into the sky, or into the far distance, undisturbed. Now and then he would be rejoiced by a bright, genuine smile, perfectly refreshing, at some of the pretty ways of the babe, a small but plump and lively creature, beginning to grasp with her hands, laugh and gaze about with eyes that gave promise of the peculiar colour and brilliancy of her father’s. Amabel was afraid she might be tempted into giving Charles too much of the little lady’s society; but he was very fond of her, regarding her with an odd mixture of curiosity and amusement, much entertained with watching what he called her unaccountable manners, and greatly flattered when he could succeed in attracting her notice. Indeed, the first time she looked full at him with a smile on the verge of a laugh, it completely overcame him, by the indescribably forcible manner in which it suddenly recalled the face which had always shone on him like a sunbeam. Above all, it was worth anything to see the looks she awoke in her mother, for which he must have loved her, even had she not been Guy’s child.
In the evening, especially on Sunday, Amabel would sometimes talk to him as she had never yet been able to do, about her last summer’s journey, and her stay at Recoara, and his way of listening and answering had in it something that gave her great pleasure; while, on his side, he deemed each fresh word of Guy’s a sort of treasure for which to be grateful to her. The brother and sister were a great help and happiness to each other; Amabel found herself restored to Charles, as Guy had liked to think of her, and Charles felt as if the old childish fancies were fulfilled, in which he and Amy were always to keep house together. He was not in the least dull; and though his good-natured visitors in the morning were welcome, and received with plenty of his gay lively talk, he did not by any means stand in need of the compassion they felt for him, and could have done very well without them; while the evenings alone with Amy had in them something so pleasant that they were almost better than those when Mr. Ross and Mary came to tea. He wrote word to his mother that she might be quite at ease about them, and he thought Amy would get through the anniversaries of September better while the house was quiet, so that she need not think of trying to hurry home.
He was glad to have done so, for the letters, which scarcely missed a day in being written by his mother and Charlotte, seemed to show that their stay was likely to be long. Lady Mabel was more broken than they had expected, and claimed a long visit, as she was sure it would be their last, while the Kilcoran party had taken possession of Laura and Charlotte, as if they never meant to let them go. Charlotte wrote her brother very full and very droll accounts of the Iricisms around her which she enjoyed thoroughly, and Charles, declaring he never expected to see little Charlotte come out in the character of the facetious correspondent, used to send Mary Ross into fits of laughing by what he read to her. Mr. Fielder, the tutor, wrote Charlotte, was very nearly equal to Eveleen’s description of him, but very particularly agreeable, in fact, the only man who had any conversation, whom she had seen since she had been at Kilcoran.
‘Imagine,’ said Charles, ‘the impertinent little puss setting up for intellectual conversation, forsooth!’
‘That’s what comes of living with good company,’ said Mary.
The brother and sister used sometimes to drive to Broadstone to fetch their letters by the second post.
‘Charlotte, of course,’ said Charles, as he opened one. ‘My Lady Morville, what’s yours?’
‘Only Mr. Markham,’ said Amabel, ‘about the winding up of our business together, I suppose. What does Charlotte say?’
‘Charlotte is in a fit of impudence, for which she deserves chastisement,’ said Charles, unable to help laughing, as he read,—
‘Our last event was a call from the fidus Achates, who, it seems, can no longer wander up and down the Mediterranean without his pius Aeneas, and so has left the army, and got a diplomatic appointment somewhere in Germany. Lord Kilcoran has asked him to come and stay here, and Mabel and I are quite sure he comes for a purpose. Of course he has chosen this time, in order that he may be able to have his companion before his eyes, as a model for courtship, and I wish I had you to help me look on whenever Philip comes, as that laugh I must enjoy alone with Bustle. However, when Philip will come we cannot think, for we have heard nothing of him this age, not even Laura, and she is beginning to look very anxious about him. Do tell us if you know anything about him. The last letter was when parliament was prorogued, and he was going to Redclyffe, at least three weeks ago.’
‘I wonder if Mr. Markham mentions him,’ said Amabel, hastily unfolding her letter, which was, as she expected, about the executors’ business, but glancing on to the end, she exclaimed,—
‘Ah! here it is. Listen, Charlie. “Mr. Morville has been here for the last few weeks, and is, I fear, very unwell. He has been entirely confined to the house, almost ever since his arrival, by violent headache, which has completely disabled him from attending to business; but he will not call in any advice. I make a point of going to see him every day, though I believe my presence is anything but acceptable, as in his present state of health and spirits, I cannot think it right that he should be left to servants.” Poor fellow! Redclyffe has been too much for him.’
‘Over-worked, I suppose,’ said Charles. ‘I thought he was coming it pretty strong these last few weeks.’
‘Not even writing to Laura! How very bad he must be! I will write at once to ask Mr. Markham for more particulars.’
She did so, and on the third day they drove again to fetch the answer. It was a much worse account. Mr. Morville was, said Markham, suffering dreadfully from headache, and lay on the sofa all day, almost unable to speak or move, but resolved against having medical advice, though his own treatment of himself did not at all succeed in relieving him. There was extreme depression of spirits, and an unwillingness to see any one. He had positively refused to admit either Lord Thorndale or Mr. Ashford, and would hardly bear to see Markham himself, who, indeed, only forced his presence on him from thinking it unfit to leave him entirely to the servants, and would be much relieved if some of Mr. Morville’s friends were present to free him from the responsibility.
‘Hem!’ said Charles. ‘I can’t say it sounds comfortable.’
‘It is just as I feared!’ said Amy. ‘Great excitability of brain and nerve, Dr. Mayerne said. All the danger of a brain fever again! Poor Laura! What is to be done?’
Charles was silent.
‘It is for want of some one to talk to him,’ said Amabel. ‘I know how he broods over his sad recollections, and Redclyffe must make it so much worse. If mamma and Laura were but at home to go to him, it might save him, and it would be fearful for him to have another illness, reduced as he is. How I wish he was here!’
‘He cannot come, I suppose,’ said Charles, ‘or he would be in Ireland.’
‘Yes. How well Guy knew when he said it would be worse for him than for me! How I wish I could do something now to make up for running away from him in Italy. If I was but at Redclyffe!’
‘Do you really wish it?’ said Charles, surprised.
‘Yes, if I could do him any good.’
‘Would you go there?’
‘If I had but papa or mamma to go with me.’
‘Do you think I should do as well?’
‘Charlie!’
‘If you think there would be any use in it, and choose to take the trouble of lugging me about the country, I don’t see why you should not.’
‘Oh! Charlie, how very, kind! How thankful poor Laura will be to you! I do believe it will save him!’ cried Amabel, eagerly.
‘But, Amy,’—he paused—‘shall you like to see Redclyffe?’
‘Oh! that is no matter,’ said she, quickly. ‘I had rather see after Philip than anything. I told you how he was made my charge, you know. And Laura! Only will it not be too tiring for you?’
‘I can’t see how it should hurt me. But I forget, what is to be done about your daughter?’
‘I don’t know what harm it could do her,’ said Amy, considering. ‘Mrs. Gresham brought a baby of only three months old from Scotland the other day, and she is six. It surely cannot hurt her, but we will ask Dr. Mayerne.’
‘Mamma will never forgive us if we don’t take the doctor into our councils.’
‘Arnaud can manage for us. We would sleep in London, and go on by an early train, and we can take our—I mean my—carriage, for the journey after the railroad. It would not be too much for you. How soon could we go?’
‘The sooner the better,’ said Charles. ‘If we are to do him any good, it must be speedily, or it will be a case of shutting the stable-door. Why not to-morrow?’
The project was thoroughly discussed that evening, but still with the feeling as if it could not be real, and when they parted at night they said,—‘We will see how the scheme looks in the morning.’
Charles was still wondering whether it was a dream, when the first thing he heard in the court below his window was—
‘Here, William, here’s a note from my lady for you to take to Dr. Mayerne.’
‘They be none of them ill?’ answered William’s voice.
‘O no; my lady has been up this hour, and Mr. Charles has rung his bell. Stop, William, my lady said you were to call at Harris’s and bring home a “Bradshaw”.’
Reality, indeed, thought Charles, marvelling at his sister, and his elastic spirits throwing him into the project with a sort of enjoyment, partaking of the pleasure of being of use, the spirit of enterprise, and the ‘fun’ of starting independently on an expedition unknown to all the family.
He met Amabel with a smile that showed both were determined. He undertook to announce the plan to his mother, and she said she would write to tell Mr. Markham that as far as could be reckoned on two such frail people, they would be at Redclyffe the next evening, and he must use his own discretion about giving Mr. Morville the note which she enclosed.
Dr. Mayerne came in time for breakfast, and the letter from Markham was at once given to him.
‘A baddish state of things, eh, doctor!’ said Charles. ‘Well, what do you think this lady proposes? To set off forthwith, both of us, to take charge of him. What do you think of that, Dr. Mayerne?’
‘I should say it was the only chance for him,’ said the doctor, looking only at the latter. ‘Spirits and health reacting on each other, I see it plain enough. Over-worked in parliament, doing nothing in moderation, going down to that gloomy old place, dreaming away by himself, going just the right way to work himself into another attack on the brain, and then he is done for. I don’t know that you could do a wiser thing than go to him, for he is no more fit to tell what is good for him than a child.’ So spoke the doctor, thinking only of the patient till looking up at the pair he was dismissing to such a charge, the helpless, crippled Charles, unable to cross the room without crutches, and Amabel, her delicate face and fragile figure in her widow’s mourning, looking like a thing to be pitied and nursed with the tenderest care, with that young child, too, he broke off and said—‘But you don’t mean you are in earnest?’
‘Never more so in our lives,’ said Charles; on which Dr. Mayerne looked so wonderingly and inquiringly at Amabel, that she answered,—
‘Yes that we are, if you think it safe for Charles and baby.’
‘Is there no one else to go? What’s become of his sister?’
‘That would never do,’ said Charles, ‘that is not the question;’ and he detailed their plan.
‘Well, I don’t see why it should not succeed,’ said the doctor, ‘or how you can any of you damage yourselves.’
‘And baby?’ said Amy.
‘What should happen to her, do you think?’ said the doctor with his kind, reassuring roughness. ‘Unless you leave her behind in the carriage, I don’t see what harm she could come to, and even then, if you direct her properly, she will come safe to hand.’ Amabel smiled, and saying she would fetch her to be inspected, ran up-stairs with the light nimble step of former days.
‘There goes one of the smallest editions of the wonders of the world!’ said Charles, covering a sigh with a smile. ‘You don’t think it will do her any harm?’
‘Not if she wishes it. I have long thought a change, a break, would be the best thing for her—poor child!—I should have sent her to the sea-side if you had been more movable, and if I had not seen every fuss about her made it worse.’
‘That’s what I call being a reasonable and valuable doctor,’ said Charles. ‘If you had routed the poor little thing out to the sea, she would have only pined the more. But suppose the captain turns out too bad for her management, for old Markham seems in a proper taking?’
‘Hem! No, I don’t expect it is come to that.’
‘Be that as it may, I have a head, if nothing else, and some one is wanted. I’ll write to you according as we find Philip.’
The doctor was wanted for another private interview, in which to assure Amabel that there was no danger for Charles, and then, after promising to come to Redclyffe if there was occasion, and engaging to write and tell Mrs. Edmonstone they had his consent, he departed to meet them by and by at the station, and put Charles into the carriage.
A very busy morning followed; Amabel arranged household affairs as befitted the vice-queen; took care that Charles’s comforts were provided for; wrote many a note; herself took down Guy’s picture, and laid it in her box, before Anne commenced her packing; and lastly, walked down to the village to take leave of Alice Lamsden.
Just as the last hues of sunset were fading, on the following evening, Lady Morville and Charles Edmonstone were passing from the moor into the wooded valley of Redclyffe. Since leaving Moorworth not a word had passed. Charles sat earnestly watching his sister; though there was too much crape in the way for him to see her face, and she was perfectly still, so that all he could judge by was the close, rigid clasping together of the hands, resting on the sleeping infant’s white mantle. Each spot recalled to him some description of Guy’s, the church-tower, the school with the two large new windows, the park wall, the rising ground within. What was she feeling? He did not dare to address her, till, at the lodge-gate, he exclaimed—‘There’s Markham;’ and, at the same time, was conscious of a feeling between hope and fear, that this might after all be a fool’s errand, and a wonder how they and the master of the house would meet if it turned out that they had taken fright without cause.
At his exclamation, Amy leant forward, and beckoned. Markham came up to the window, and after the greeting on each side, walked along with his hand on the door, as the carriage slowly mounted the steep hill, answering her questions: ‘How is he?’
‘No better. He has been putting on leeches, and made himself so giddy, that yesterday he could hardly stand.’
‘And they have not relieved him?’
‘Not in the least. I am glad you are come, for it has been an absurd way of going on.’
‘Is he up?’
‘Yes; on the sofa in the library.’
‘Did you give him my note? Does he expect us?’
‘No, I went to see about telling him this morning, but found him so low and silent, I thought it was better not. He has not opened a letter this week, and he might have refused to see you, as he did Lord Thorndale. Besides, I didn’t know how he would take my writing about him, though if you had not written, I believe I should have let Mrs. Henley know by this time.’
‘There is an escape for him,’ murmured Charles to his sister.
‘We have done the best in our power to receive you’ proceeded Markham; ‘I hope you will find it comfortable, Lady Morville, but—’
‘Thank you, I am not afraid,’ said Amy, smiling a little. Markham’s eye was on the little white bundle in her lap, but he did not speak of it, and went on with explanations about Mrs. Drew and Bolton and the sitting-room, and tea being ready.
Charles saw the great red pile of building rise dark, gloomy, and haunted-looking before them. The house that should have been Amabel’s! Guy’s own beloved home! How could she bear it? But she was eagerly asking Markham how Philip should be informed of their arrival, and Markham was looking perplexed, and saying, that to drive under the gateway, into the paved court, would make a thundering sound, that he dreaded for Mr. Morville. Could Mr. Charles Edmonstone cross the court on foot? Charles was ready to do so; the carriage stopped, Amabel gave the baby to Anne, saw Arnaud help Charles out; and turning to Markham, said, ‘I had better go to him at once. Arnaud will show my brother the way.’
‘The sitting-room, Arnaud’ said Markham, and walked on fast with her, while Charles thought how strange to see her thus pass the threshold of her husband’s house, come thither to relieve and comfort his enemy.
She entered the dark-oak hall. On one side the light shone cheerfully from the sitting-room, the other doors were all shut. Markham hesitated, and stood reluctant.
‘Yes, you had better tell him I am here,’ said she, in the voice, so gentle, that no one perceived its resolution.
Markham knocked at one of the high heavy doors, and softly opened it. Amabel stood behind it, and looked into the room, more than half dark, without a fire, and very large, gloomy, and cheerless, in the gray autumn twilight, that just enabled her to see the white pillows on the sofa, and Philip’s figure stretched out on it. Markham advanced and stood doubtful for an instant, then in extremity, began—‘Hem! Lady Morville is come, and—’
