The Heir of Redclyffe

‘I am very much obliged to you,’ answered Guy, his voice stern and dignified, and the smile that curled his lip was like Philip’s own.

Philip was positively annoyed, and desirous to say something to put him down, but he had not committed himself by any vehemence, and Philip was too cool and wise to compromise his own dignity, so he rose to go, saying, ‘Good night! I am sorry I cannot induce you to act in the only way that can right you.’

‘Good night!’ replied Guy, in the same dignified manner in which he had spoken ever since his passion had been surmounted.

They parted, each feeling that matters were just where they were before. Philip went back to his inn, moralizing on the pride and perverseness which made it impossible to make any impression on a Redclyffe Morville, whom not even the fear of detection could lead to submission.

Next morning, while Philip was hastily breakfasting, the door opened, and Guy entered, pale and disturbed, as if he had been awake all night.

‘Philip!’ said he, in his frank, natural voice, ‘I don’t think we parted last night as your good intentions deserved.’

‘O, ho!’ thought Philip; ‘the fear of an investigation has brought him to reason;’ and he said, ‘Well, I am very glad you see things in a truer light this morning;’ then asked if he had breakfasted. He had; and his cousin added,

‘Have you anything to say on the matter we discussed last night?’

‘No. I can only repeat that I am not guilty, and wait for time to show my innocence. I only came to see you once more, that I might feel we parted friends.’

‘I shall always hope to be a true friend.’

‘I did not come here for altercation,’ said Guy (an answer rather to the spirit than the words), ‘so I will say no more. If you wish to see me again, you will find me in my rooms. Good-bye.’

Philip was puzzled. He wondered whether Guy had come wishing to propitiate him, but had found pride indomitable at the last moment; or whether he had been showing himself too severely just to admit entreaty. He would be able to judge better after he had made his inquiries, and he proceeded with them at once. He met with no such replies as he expected. Every one spoke of Sir Guy Morville in high terms, as strict in his habits of application, and irreproachable in conduct. He was generally liked, and some regret was expressed that he lived in so secluded a manner, forming so few intimacies; but no one seemed to think it possible that anything wrong could be imputed to him. Philip could even perceive that there was some surprise that such inquiries should be made at all, especially by so young a man as himself. Mr. Wellwood, the person whom he most wished to see, was not at Oxford, but was at home preparing for his ordination.

Nor could Philip get nearer to the solution of the mystery when he went to the tradesmen, who were evidently as much surprised as the tutors, and said he always paid in ready money. Captain Morville felt like a lawyer whose case is breaking down, no discoveries made, nothing done; but he was not one whit convinced of his cousin’s innocence, thinking the college authorities blind and careless, and the tradesmen combined to conceal their extortions, or else that the mischief had been done at St. Mildred’s. He was particularly provoked when he remembered Guy’s invitation to him to come to his rooms, knowing, as he must have done, what would be the result of his inquiry.

Philip was conscious that it would have been kind to have gone to say that, so far, he had found nothing amiss, but he did not like giving Guy this passing triumph. It made no difference in his real opinion; and why renew a useless discussion? He persuaded himself that he had left himself no time, and should miss the train, and hastened off to the station, where he had to wait a quarter of an hour, consoling himself with reflecting—

‘After all, though I might have gone to him, it would have been useless. He is obstinate, and occasions of irritating his unfortunate temper are above all to be avoided.’

One short year after, what would not Philip have given for that quarter of an hour!

By six o’clock he was at St. Mildred’s, greeted with delight by his sister, and with cordiality by Dr. Henley. They were both proud of him, and every tender feeling his sister had was for Philip, her pet, and her pupil in his childhood, and her most valued companion and counsellor through her early womanhood.

She had a picked dinner-party to meet him, for she knew the doctor’s conversation was not exactly the thing to entertain him through a whole evening, and the guests might well think they had never seen a handsomer or more clever brother and sister than Mrs. Henley and Captain Morville. The old county families, if they did wonder at her marriage, were always glad to meet her brother, and it was a great pleasure to him to see old friends.

Only once did his sister, in the course of the evening, make him feel the difference of their sentiments, and that was about Miss Wellwood. Philip defended her warmly; and when he heard that there was a plan getting up for excluding her from the hospital, he expressed strong disapprobation at the time; and after the guests were gone, spoke upon the subject with his sister and her husband. The doctor entered into no party questions, and had only been stirred up to the opposition by his wife; he owned that the Miss Wellwoods had done a great deal of good, and made the nurses do their duty better than he had ever known, and was quite ready to withdraw his opposition. Mrs. Henley argued about opinions, but Philip was a match for her in her own line; and the end of it was, that though she would not allow herself to be convinced, and shook her head at her brother’s way of thinking, he knew he had prevailed, and that Miss Wellwood would be unmolested.

There was not another person in the world to whom Margaret would have yielded; and it served to restore him to the sense of universal dominion which had been a little shaken by his conversation with Guy.

‘Sir Guy was a great deal with the Wellwoods,’ said Mrs. Henley.

‘Was he, indeed?’

‘O, you need not think of that. It would be too absurd. The youngest must be twice his age.’

‘I was not thinking of any such thing,’ said Philip, smiling, as he thought of the very different course Guy’s affections had taken.

‘I did hear he was to marry Lady Eveleen de Courcy. Is there anything in that report?’

‘No; certainly not.’

‘I should pity the woman who married him, after the specimen I saw of his temper.’

‘Poor boy!’ said Philip.

‘Lady Eveleen has been a great deal at Hollywell, has she not? I rather wondered my aunt should like to have her there, considering all things.’

‘What things, sister?’

‘Considering what a catch he would be for one of the Edmonstone girls.’

‘I thought you had just been pitying the woman who should marry him. Perhaps my aunt had Lady Eveleen there to act as a screen for her own daughters.’

‘That our good-natured aunt should have acted with such ultra-prudence!’ said Margaret, laughing at his grave ironical tone. ‘Lady Eveleen is very pretty, is she not? A mere beauty, I believe?’

‘Just so; she is much admired; but Guy is certainly not inclined to fall in love with her.’

‘I should have thought him the very man to fall in love young, like his father. Do you think there is any chance for either of the Edmonstones? Laura’s beauty he spoke of, but it was not in a very lover-like way. Do you admire Laura so much?’

‘She is very pretty.’

‘And little Amy?’

‘She is a mere child, and will hardly ever be anything more; but she is a very good little amiable thing.’

‘I wish poor Charles’s temper was improved.’

‘So do I; but it is very far from improvement at present, in consequence of his zeal for Guy. Guy has been very attentive and good natured to him, and has quite won his heart; so that I should positively honour him for his championship if it was not in great degree out of opposition to his father and myself. To-morrow, Margaret, you must give me some guide to the most probable quarters for learning anything respecting this poor boy’s follies.’

Mrs. Henley did her best in that way, and Philip followed up his inquiries with great ardour, but still unsuccessfully. Jack White, the hero of the draft, was not at St. Mildred’s, nor likely to be heard of again till the next races; and whether Sir Guy had been on the race-ground at all was a doubtful point. Next, Philip walked to Stylehurst, to call on Colonel Harewood, and see if he could learn anything in conversation with him; but the Colonel did not seem to know anything, and his sons were not at home. Young Morville was, he thought, a spirited lad, very good natured; he had been out shooting once or twice with Tom, and had a very fine spaniel. If he had been at the races, the Colonel did not know it; he had some thoughts of asking him to join their party, but had been prevented.

This was no reason, thought Philip, why Guy might not have been with Tom Harewood without the Colonel’s knowledge. Tom was just the man to lead him amongst those who were given to betting; he might have been drawn in, and, perhaps, he had given some pledge of payment when he was of age, or, possibly, obtained an immediate supply of money from the old steward at Redclyffe, who was devotedly attached to him. If so, Philip trusted to be able to detect it from the accounts; on the other supposition, there was no hope of discovery.

The conversation with Colonel Harewood kept him so late that he had no time for going, as usual, to his old haunts, at Stylehurst; nor did he feel inclined just then to revive the saddening reflections they excited. He spent the evening in talking over books with his sister, and the next day proceeded on his journey to Thorndale Park.

This was one of the places where he was always the most welcome, ever since he had been a school-boy, received in a way especially flattering, considering that the friendship was entirely owing to the uncompromising good sense and real kindness with which he had kept in order the follies of his former fag.

Charles might laugh, and call them the young man and young man’s companion, and Guy more classically term them the pious Aeneas and his fidus Achates, but it was a friendship that did honour to both; and the value that the Thorndales set upon Captain Morville was not misplaced, and scarcely over-rated. Not particularly clever themselves, they the more highly appreciated his endowments, and were proud that James had been able to make such a friend, for they knew, as well as the rest of the world, that Captain Morville was far from seeking the acquaintance for the sake of their situation in life, but that it was from real liking and esteem. How far this esteem was gained by the deference the whole family paid to his opinion, was another question; at any rate, the courting was from them.

The Miss Thorndales deemed Captain Morville the supreme authority in drawing, literature, and ecclesiastical architecture; and whenever a person came in their way who was thought handsome, always pronounced that he was not by any means equal to James’s friend. Lady Thorndale delighted to talk over James with him, and thank him for his kindness; and Lord Thorndale, rather a pompous man himself, liked his somewhat stately manners, and talked politics with him, sincerely wishing he was his neighbour at Redclyffe, and calculating how much good he would do there. Philip listened with interest to accounts of how the Thorndale and Morville influence had always divided the borough of Moorworth, and, if united, might dispose of it at will, and returned evasive answers to questions what the young heir of Redclyffe might be likely to do.

James Thorndale drove his friend to Redclyffe, as Philip had authority from Mr. Edmonstone to transact any business that might be required with Markham, the steward; and, as has been said before, he expected to discover in the accounts something that might explain why Guy had ceased to press for the thousand pounds. However, he could find nothing amiss in them, though—bearing in mind that it is less easy to detect the loss of a score of sheep than of one—he subjected them to a scrutiny which seemed by no means agreeable to the gruff old grumbling steward. He also walked about the park, saw to the marking of certain trees that were injuring each other; and finding that there was a misunderstanding between Markham and the new rector, Mr. Ashford, about certain parish matters, where the clergyman was certainly right, he bore down Markham’s opposition with Mr. Edmonstone’s weight, and felt he was doing good service.

He paused at the gate, and looked back at the wide domain and fine old house. He pitied them, and the simple-hearted, honest tenantry, for being the heritage of such a family, and the possession of one so likely to misuse them, instead of training them into the means of conferring benefits on them, on his country. What would not Philip himself do if those lands were his,—just what was needed to give his talents free scope? and what would it be to see his beautiful Laura their mistress?

CHAPTER 20

     The longing for ignoble things,     The strife for triumph more than truth,     The hardening of the heart, that brings     Irreverence for the dreams of youth.—LONGFELLOW

After his week at Thorndale Park, Captain Morville returned to make his farewell visit at Hollywell, before joining his regiment at Cork, whence it was to sail for the Mediterranean. He reckoned much on this visit, for not even Laura herself could fathom the depth of his affection for her, strengthening in the recesses where he so sternly concealed it, and viewing her ever as more faultless since she had been his own. While she was his noble, strong-minded, generous, fond Laura, he could bear with his disappointment in his sister, with the loss of his home, and with the trials that had made him a grave, severe man. She had proved the strength of her mind by the self-command he had taught her, and for which he was especially grateful to her, as it made him safer and more unconstrained, able to venture on more demonstration than in those early days when every look had made her blush and tremble.

Mr. Edmonstone brought the carriage to fetch him from the station, and quickly began,—

‘I suppose, as you have not written, you have found nothing out?’

‘Nothing.’

‘And you could do nothing with him. Eh?’

‘No; I could not get a word of explanation, nor break through the fence of pride and reserve. I must do him the justice to say that he bears the best of characters at Oxford; and if there were any debts I could not get at them from the tradesmen.’

‘Well, well, say no more about it; he is an ungrateful young dog, and I am sick of it. I only wish I could wash my hands of him altogether. It was mere folly to expect any of that set could ever come to good. There’s everything going wrong all at once now; poor little Amy breaking her heart after him, and, worse than all, there’s poor Charlie laid up again,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, one of the most affectionate people in the world; but his maundering mood making him speak of Charles’s illness as if he only regarded it as an additional provocation for himself.

‘Charles ill!’ exclaimed Philip.

‘Yes; another, of those formations in the joint. I hoped and trusted that was all over now; but he is as bad as ever,—has not been able to move for a week, and goodness knows when he will again.’

‘Indeed! I am very sorry. Is there as much pain as before?’

‘Oh, yes. He has not slept a wink these four nights. Mayerne talks of opium; but he says he won’t have it till he has seen you, he is so anxious about this unlucky business. If anything could persuade me to have Guy back again it would be that this eternal fretting after him is so bad for poor Charlie.’

‘It is on Amy’s account that it is impossible to have him here,’ said Philip.

‘Ay! He shall never set eyes on Amy again unless all this is cleared up, which it never will be, as I desire mamma to tell her. By the bye, Philip, Amy said something of your having a slip with Charles on the stairs.’

There was very nearly an accident; but I believed he was not hurt. I hope it has nothing to do with this illness?’

‘He says it was all his own fault,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, ‘and that he should have been actually down but for you.’

‘But is it really thought it can have caused this attack?’

‘I can hardly suppose so; but Thompson fancies there may have been some jar. However, don’t distress yourself; I dare say it would have come on all the same.’

Philip did not like to be forgiven by Mr. Edmonstone, and there was something very annoying in having this mischance connected with his name, though without his fault; nor did he wish Charles to have the kind of advantage over him that might be derived from seeming to pass over his share in the misfortune.

When they arrived at Hollywell, it was twilight, but no one was in the drawing-room, generally so cheerful at that time of day; the fire had lately been smothered with coals, and looked gloomy and desolate. Mr. Edmonstone left Philip there, and ran up to see how Charles was, and soon after Laura came in, sprang to his side, and held his hand in both hers.

‘You bring no good news?’ said she, sadly, as she read the answer in his face. ‘O! how I wish you had. It would be such a comfort now. You have heard about poor Charlie?’

‘Yes; and very sorry I am. But, Laura, is it really thought that accident could have occasioned it?’

‘Dr. Mayerne does not think so, only Mr. Thompson talked of remote causes, when Amy mentioned it. I don’t believe it did any harm, and Charlie himself says you saved him from falling down-stairs.’

Philip had begun to give Laura his version of the accident, as he had already done to her father, when Mrs. Edmonstone came down, looking harassed and anxious. She told her nephew that Charles was very desirous to see him, and sent him up at once.

There was a fire in the dressing-room, and the door was open into the little room, which was only lighted by a lamp on a small table, where Amy was sitting at work. After shaking hands, she went away, leaving him alone with Charles, who lay in his narrow bed against the wall, fixed in one position, his forehead contracted with pain, his eyelids red and heavy from sleeplessness, his eyes very quick and eager, and his hands and arms thrown restlessly outside the coverings.

‘I am very sorry to find you here,’ said Philip, coming up to him, and taking, rather than receiving, his hot, limp hand. ‘Is the pain very bad?’

‘That is a matter of course,’ said Charles, in a sharp, quick manner, his voice full of suffering. ‘I want to hear what you have been doing at Oxford and St. Mildred’s.’

‘I am sorry I do not bring the tidings you wish.’

‘I did not expect you would. I know you too well; but I want to hear what you have been doing—what he said,’ answered Charles, in short, impatient sentences.

‘It can be of no use, Charlie. You are not in a state to enter on agitating subjects.’

‘I tell you I will hear all,’ returned Charles, with increased asperity. ‘I know you will say nothing to his advantage that you can help, but still I know you will speak what you think the truth, and I want to judge for myself.’

‘You speak as if I was not acting for his good.’

‘Palaver!’ cried Charles, fully sensible of the advantage his illness gave him. ‘I want the facts. Begin at the beginning. Sit down—there’s a chair by you. Now tell me, where did you find him?’

Philip could not set Charles down in his present state, and was obliged to submit to a cross-examination, in which he showed no abatement of his natural acuteness, and, unsparing as he always was, laid himself under no restraint at all. Philip was compelled to give a full history of his researches; and if he had afforded no triumph to Guy, Charles revenged him.

‘Pray, what did Guy say when he heard the result of this fine voyage of discovery?’

‘I did not see him again.’

‘Not see him! not tell him he was so far justified!’

‘I had no time—at least I thought not. It would have been useless, for while these mysteries continue, my opinion is unchanged, and there was no benefit in renewing vain disputes.’

‘Say no more!’ exclaimed Charles. ‘You have said all I expected, and more too. I gave you credit for domineering and prejudice, now I see it is malignity.’

As he spoke, Laura entered from the dressing-room, and stood aghast at the words, and then looked imploringly at her cousin. Dr. Mayerne was following her, and Charles called out,—

‘Now, doctor, give me as much opium as you please. I only want to be stupefied till the world has turned round, and then you may wake me.’

Philip shook hands with Dr. Mayerne, and, without betraying a shade of annoyance, wished Charles good night; but Charles had drawn the coverings over his head, and would not hear him.

‘Poor fellow!’ said Philip to Laura, when they were out of the room. ‘He is a very generous partisan, and excitement and suffering make him carry his zeal to excess.’

‘I knew you could not be angry with him.’

‘I could not be angry at this time at far more provocation given by any one belonging to you, Laura.’

Laura’s heart had that sensation which the French call “se serrer”, as she heard him allude to the long separation to which there seemed no limit; but they could say no more.

‘Amy,’ said Charles, when she returned to him after dinner, ‘I am more than ever convinced that things will right themselves. I never saw prejudice more at fault.’

‘Did he tell you all about it?’

‘I worked out of him all I could, and it is my belief Guy had the best of it. I only wonder he did not horsewhip Philip round the quadrangle. I wish he had.’

‘Oh, no, no! But he controlled himself?’

‘If he had not we should have heard of it fast enough;’ and Charles told what he had been able to gather, while she sat divided between joy and pain.

Philip saw very little more of Charles. He used to come to ask him how he was once a day, but never received any encouragement to lengthen his visit. These gatherings in the diseased joint were always excessively painful, and were very long in coming to the worst, as well as afterwards in healing; and through the week of Philip’s stay at Hollywell, Charles was either in a state of great suffering, or else heavy and confused with opiates. His mother’s whole time and thoughts were absorbed in him; she attended to him day and night, and could hardly spare a moment for anything else. Indeed, with all her affection and anxiety for the young lovers, Charles was so entirely her engrossing object, that her first feeling of disappointment at the failure of Philip’s journey of investigation was because it would grieve Charlie. She could not think about Guy just then, and for Amy there was nothing for it but patience; and, good little creature, it was very nice to see her put her own troubles aside, and be so cheerful a nurse to her brother. She was almost always in his room, for he liked to have her there, and she could not conquer a certain shrinking from Philip.

Laura had once pleaded hard and earnestly for Guy with Philip, but all in vain; she was only taught to think the case more hopeless than before. Laura was a very kind nurse and sister, but she could better be spared than her mother and Amy, so that it generally fell to her lot to be down-stairs, making the drawing-room habitable. Dr. Mayerne, whenever Charles was ill, used to be more at Hollywell than at his own house, and there were few days that he did not dine there. When Amy was out of the way, Philip used to entertain them with long accounts of Redclyffe, how fine a place it was, how far the estate reached on the Moorworth road, of its capacities for improvement, wastes of moorland to be enclosed or planted, magnificent timber needing nothing but thinning. He spoke of the number of tenantry, and the manorial rights, and the influence in both town and county, which, in years gone by, had been proved to the utmost in many a fierce struggle with the house of Thorndale. Sir Guy Morville might be one of the first men in England if he were not wanting to himself. Mr. Edmonstone enjoyed such talk, for it made him revel in the sense of his own magnanimity in refusing his daughter to the owner of all this; and Laura sometimes thought how Philip would have graced such a position, yet how much greater it was to rest entirely on his own merits.