The Heir of Redclyffe

‘How many?’ while his eyes had more of their usual expression.

‘I cannot count,’ returned Guy; ‘but it is less than in the evening. Some drink?’

Philip took some, then making an effort to look round, said,—‘What day is it?’

‘Saturday morning, the 23rd of August.’

‘I have been ill a long time!’

‘You have indeed, full three weeks; but you are better to-night.’

He was silent for some moments; then, collecting himself, and looking fixedly at Guy, he said, in his own steady voice, though very feeble,—‘I suppose, humanly speaking, it is an even chance between life and death?’

‘Yes,’ said Guy, firmly, the low sweet tones of his voice full of tenderness. ‘You are very ill; but not without hope.’ Then, after a pause, during which Philip looked thoughtful, but calm, he added,—‘I have tried to bring a clergyman here, but I could not succeed. Would you like me to read to you?’

‘Thank you-presently—but I have something to say. Some more water;—thank you.’ Then, after pausing, ‘Guy, you have thought I judged you harshly; I meant to act for the best.’

‘Don’t think of that,’ said Guy, with a rush of joy at hearing the words of reconciliation he had yearned for so long.

‘And now you have been most kind. If I live, you shall see that I am sensible of it;’ and he feebly moved his hand to his cousin, who pressed it, hardly less happy than on the day he stood before Mrs. Edmonstone in the dressing-room. Presently, Philip went on. ‘My sister has my will. My love to her, and to—to—to poor Laura.’ His voice suddenly failed; and while Guy was again moistening his lips, he gathered strength, and said,—‘You and Amy will do what you can for her. Do not let the blow come suddenly. Ah! you do not know. We have been engaged this long time.’

Guy did not exclaim, but Philip saw his amazement. ‘It was very wrong; it was not her fault,’ he added. ‘I can’t tell you now; but if I live all shall be told. If not, you will be kind to her?’

‘Indeed we will.’

‘Poor Laura!’ again said Philip, in a much weaker voice, and after lying still a little longer, he faintly whispered,—‘Read to me.’

Guy read till he fell into a doze, which lasted till Arnaud came in the morning, and Guy went up to his wife.

‘Amy,’ said he, entering with a quiet bright look, ‘he has spoken to me according to my wish.’

‘Then it is all right,’ said Amabel, answering his look with one as calm and sweet. ‘Is he better?’

‘Not materially; his pulse is still very high; but there was a gleam of perfect consciousness; he spoke calmly and clearly, fully understanding his situation. Come what will, it is a thing to be infinitely thankful for! I am very glad! Now for our morning reading.’

As soon as it was over, and when Guy had satisfied himself that the patient was still quiet, they sat down to breakfast. Guy considered a little while, and said,—

‘I have been very much surprised. Had you any idea of an attachment between him and Laura?’

‘I know she is very fond of him, and she has always been his favourite. What? Has he been in love with her all this time, poor fellow?’

‘He says they are engaged.’

‘Laura? Our sister! Oh, Guy, impossible! He must have been wandering.’

‘I could have almost thought so; but his whole manner forbade me to think there was any delusion. He was too weak to explain; but he said it was not her fault, and was overcome when speaking of her. He begged us to spare her from suddenly hearing of his death. He was as calm and reasonable as I am at this moment. No, Amy, it was not delirium.’

‘I don’t know how to believe it!’ said Amabel. ‘It is so impossible for Laura, and for him too. Don’t you know how, sometimes in fevers, people take a delusion, and are quite rational about everything else, and that, too; if only it was true; and don’t you think it very likely, that if he really has been in love with her all this time, (how much he must have gone through!) he may fancy he has been secretly engaged, and reproach himself?’

‘I cannot tell,’ said Guy; ‘there was a reality in his manner of speaking that refuses to let me disbelieve him. Surely it cannot be one of the horrors of death that we should be left to reproach ourselves with the fancied sins we have been prone to, as well as with our real ones. Then’—and he rose, and walked about the room—‘if so, more than ever, in the hour of death, good Lord, deliver us!’

Amabel was silent, and presently he sat down, saying,—‘Well, time will show!’

‘I cannot think it’ said Amy. ‘Laura! How could she help telling mamma!’ And as Guy smiled at the recollection of their own simultaneous coming to mamma, she added,—‘Not only because it was right, but for the comfort of it.’

‘But, Amy, do you remember what I told you of poor Laura’s fears, and what she said to me, on our wedding-day?’

‘Poor Laura!’ said Amy. ‘Yet—’ She paused, and Guy presently said,—

‘Well, I won’t believe it, if I can possibly help it. I can’t afford to lose my faith in my sister’s perfection, or Philip’s, especially now. But I must go; I have loitered too long, and Arnaud ought to go to his breakfast.’

Amabel sat long over the remains of her breakfast. She did not puzzle herself over Philip’s confession, for she would not admit it without confirmation; and she could not think of his misdoings, even those of which she was certain, on the day when his life was hanging in the balance. All she could bear to recollect was his excellence; nay, in the tenderness of her heart, she nearly made out that she had always been very fond of him, overlooking that even before Guy came to Hollywell, she had always regarded him with more awe than liking, been disinclined to his good advice, shrunk from his condescension, and regularly enjoyed Charles’s quizzing of him. All this, and all the subsequent injuries were forgotten, and she believed, as sincerely as her husband, that Philip had been free from any unkind intention. But she chiefly dwelt on her own Guy, especially that last speech, so unlike some of whom she had heard, who were rather glad to find a flaw in a faultless model, if only to obtain a fellow-feeling for it.

‘Yes,’ thought she, ‘he might look far without finding anything better than himself, though he won’t believe it. If ever he could make me angry, it will be by treating me as if I was better than he. Such nonsense! But I suppose his goodness would not be such if he was conscious of it, so I must be content with him as he is. I can’t be so unwifelike after all; for I am sure nothing makes me feel so small and foolish as that humility of his! Come, I must see about some dinner for the French doctor.’

She set to work on her housewifery cares; but when these were despatched, it was hard to begin anything else on such a day of suspense, when she was living on reports from the sick room. The delirium had returned, more violent than ever; and as she sat at her open window she often heard the disconnected words. She could do nothing but listen—she could neither read nor draw, and even letter-writing failed her to-day, for it seemed cruel to send a letter to his sister, and if Philip was not under a delusion, it was still worse to write to Hollywell; it made her shudder to think of the misery she might have inflicted in the former letters, where she had not spared the detail of her worst fears and conjectures, and by no means softened the account, as she had done to his sister.

Late in the afternoon the physician came, and she heard of his being quieter; indeed, there were no sounds below. It grew dark; Arnaud brought lights, and told her Captain Morville had sunk into stupor. After another long space, the doctor came to take some coffee, and said the fever was lessening, but that strength was going with it, and if “le malade” was saved, it would be owing to the care and attention of “le chevalier”.

Of Guy she saw no more that evening. The last bulletin was pencilled by him on a strip of paper, and sent to her at eleven at night:

‘Pulse almost nothing; deadly faintness; doctor does not give him up; it may be many hours: don’t sit up; you shall hear when there is anything decisive.’

Amy submitted, and slowly put herself to bed, because she thought Guy would not like to find her up; but she had little sleep, and that was dreamy, full of the same anxieties as her waking moments, and perhaps making the night seem longer than if she had been awake the whole time.

At last she started from a somewhat sounder doze than usual, and saw it was becoming light, the white summits of the mountains were beginning to show themselves, and there was twilight in the room. Just then she heard a light, cautious tread in the passage; the lock of Guy’s dressing-room was gently, slowly turned. It was over then! Life or death? Her heart beat as she heard her husband’s step in the next room, and her suspense would let her call out nothing but—‘I am not asleep!’

Guy came forward, and stood still, while she looked up to the outline of his figure against the window. With a kind of effort he said, with forced calmness—‘He’ll do now! and came to the bedside. His face was wet with tears, and her eyes were over-flowing. After a few moments he murmured a few low words of deep thanksgivings, and again there was a silence.

‘He is asleep quietly and comfortably,’ said Guy, presently, ‘and his pulse is steadier. The faintness and sinking have been dreadful; the doctor has been sitting with his hand on his pulse, telling me when to put the cordial into his mouth. Twice I thought him all but gone; and till within the last hour, I did not think he could have revived; but now, the doctor says we may almost consider the danger as over.’

‘Oh, how glad I am! Was he sensible? Could he speak?’

‘Sensible at least when not fainting; but too weak to speak, or often, to look up. When he did though, it was very kindly, very pleasantly. And now! This is joy coming in the morning, Amy!’

‘I wonder if you are happier now than after the shipwreck,’ said Amy, after a silence.

‘How can you ask? The shipwreck was a gleam, the first ray that came to cheer me in those penance hours, when I was cut off from all; and now, oh, Amy! I cannot enter into it. Such richness and fullness of blessing showered on me, more than I ever dared to wish for or dream of, both in the present and future hopes. It seems more than can belong to man, at least to me, so unlike what I have deserved, that I can hardly believe it. It must be sent as a great trial.’

Amabel thought this so beautiful, that she could not answer; and he presently gave her some further particulars. He went back in spite of her entreaties that he would afford himself a little rest, saying that the doctor was obliged to go away, and Philip still needed the most careful watching. Amy could not sleep any more, but lay musing over that ever-brightening goodness which had lately at all times almost startled her from its very unearthliness.

CHAPTER 32

     Sure all things wear a heavenly dress,     Which sanctifies their loveliness,     Types of that endless resting day,     When we shall be as changed as they.—HYMN FOR SUNDAY

From that time there was little more cause for anxiety. Philip was, indeed, exceedingly reduced, unable to turn in bed, to lift his head, or to speak except now and then a feeble whisper; but the fever was entirely gone, and his excellent constitution began rapidly to repair its ravages. Day by day, almost hour by hour, he was rallying, spending most of his time profitably in sleep, and looking very contented in his short intervals of waking. These became each day rather longer, his voice became stronger, and he made more remarks and inquiries. His first care, when able to take heed of what did not concern his immediate comfort, was that Colonel Deane should be written to, as his leave of absence was expired; but he said not a word about Hollywell, and Amabel therefore hoped her surmise was right, that his confession had been prompted by a delirious fancy, though Guy thought something was implied by his silence respecting the very persons of whom it would have been natural to have talked.

He was very patient of his weakness and dependence, always thankful and willing to be pleased, and all that had been unpleasant in his manner to Guy was entirely gone. He liked to be waited on by him, and received his attentions without laborious gratitude, just in the way partly affectionate, partly matter of course, that was most agreeable; showing himself considerate of his fatigue, though without any of his old domineering advice.

One evening Guy was writing, when Philip, who had been lying still, as if asleep, asked, ‘Are you writing to Hollywell?’

‘Yes, to Charlotte; but there is no hurry, it won’t go till tomorrow. Have you any message?

‘No, thank you.’

Guy fancied he sighed; and there was a long silence, at the end of which he asked, ‘Guy, have I said anything about Laura?’

‘Yes,’ said Guy, putting down the pen.

‘I thought so; but I could not remember,’ said Philip, turning round, and settling himself for conversation, with much of his ordinary deliberate preparation; ‘I hope it was not when I had no command of myself?’

‘No, you were seldom intelligible, you were generally trying to speak Italian, or else talking about Stylehurst. The only time you mentioned her was the night before the worst.’

‘I recollect,’ said Philip. ‘I will not draw back from the resolution I then made, though I did not know whether I had spoken it, let the consequences be what they may. The worst is, that they will fall the most severely on her: and her implicit reliance on me was her only error.’

His voice was very low, and so full of painful feeling that Guy doubted whether to let him enter on such a subject at present; but remembering the relief of free confession, he thought it best to allow him to proceed, only now and then putting in some note of sympathy or of interrogation, in word or gesture.

‘I must explain,’ said Philip, ‘that you may see how little blame can be imputed to her. It was that summer, three years ago, the first after you came. I had always been her chief friend. I saw, or thought I saw, cause for putting her on her guard. The result has shown that the danger was imaginary; but no matter—I thought it real. In the course of the conversation, more of my true sentiments were avowed than I was aware of; she was very young, and before we, either of us, knew what we were doing, it had been equivalent to a declaration. Well! I do not speak to excuse the concealment, but to show you my motive. If it had been known, there would have been great displeasure and disturbance; I should have been banished; and though time might have softened matters, we should both have had a great deal to go through. Heaven knows what it may be now! And, Guy,’ he added, breaking off with trembling eagerness, ‘when did you hear from Hollywell? Do you know how she has borne the news of my illness?’

‘We have heard since they knew of it,’ said Guy; ‘the letter was from Mrs. Edmonstone to Amy; but she did not mention Laura.’

‘She has great strength; she would endure anything rather than give way; but how can she have borne the anxiety and silence? You are sure my aunt does not mention her?’

‘Certain. I will ask Amy for the letter, if you like.’

‘No, do not go; I must finish, since I have begun. We did not speak of an engagement; it was little more than an avowal of preference; I doubt whether she understood what it amounted to, and I desired her to be silent. I deceived myself all along, by declaring she was free; and I had never asked for her promise; but those things will not do when we see death face to face, and a resolve made at such a moment must be kept, let it bring what it may.’

‘True.’

‘She will be relieved; she wished it to be known; but I thought it best to wait for my promotion—the only chance of our being able to marry. However, it shall be put into her father’s hands as soon as I can hold a pen. All I wish is, that she should not have to bear the brunt of his anger.’

‘He is too kind and good-natured to keep his displeasure long.’

‘If it would only light on the right head, instead of on the head of the nearest. You say she was harassed and out of spirits. I wish you were at home; Amy would comfort her and soften them.’

‘We hope to go back as soon as you are in travelling condition. If you will come home with us, you will be at hand when Mr. Edmonstone is ready to forgive, as I am sure he soon will be. No one ever was so glad to forget his displeasure.’

‘Yes; it will be over by the time I meet him, for she will have borne it all. There is the worst! But I will not put off the writing, as soon as I have the power. Every day the concealment continues is a further offence.’

‘And present suffering is an especial earnest and hope of forgiveness,’ said Guy. ‘I have no doubt that much may be done to make Mr. Edmonstone think well of it.’

‘If any suffering of mine would spare hers!’ sighed Philip. ‘You cannot estimate the difficulties in our way. You know nothing of poverty,—the bar it is to everything; almost a positive offence in itself!’

‘This is only tiring yourself with talking,’ said Guy, perceiving how Philip’s bodily weakness was making him fall into a desponding strain. ‘You must make haste to get well, and come home with us, and I think we shall find it no such bad case after all. There’s Amy’s fortune to begin with, only waiting for such an occasion. No, I can’t have you answer; you have talked, quite long enough.’

Philip was in a state of feebleness that made him willing to avoid the trouble of thinking, by simply believing what he was told, ‘that it was no bad case.’ He was relieved by having confessed, though to the person whom, a few weeks back, he would have thought the last to whom he could have made such a communication, over whom he had striven to assume superiority, and therefore before whom he could have least borne to humble himself—nay, whose own love he had lately traversed with an arrogance that was rendered positively absurd by this conduct of his own. Nevertheless, he had not shrunk from the confession. His had been real repentance, so far as he perceived his faults; and he would have scorned to avail himself of the certainty of Guy’s silence on what he had said at the time of his extreme danger. He had resolved to speak, and had found neither an accuser nor a judge, not even one consciously returning good for evil, but a friend with honest, simple, straightforward kindness, doing the best for him in his power, and dreading nothing so much as hurting his feelings. It was not the way in which Philip himself could have received such a confidence.

As soon as Guy could leave him, he went up to his wife. ‘Amy,’ said he, rather sadly, ‘we have had it out. It is too true.’

Her first exclamation surprised him: ‘Then Charlie really is the cleverest person in the world.’

‘How? Had he any suspicion?’

‘Not that I know of; but, more than once, lately, I have been alarmed by recollecting how he once said that poor Laura was so much too wise for her age, that Nature would some day take her revenge, and make her do something very foolish. But has Philip told you all about it?’

‘Yes; explained it all very kindly. It must have cost him a great deal; but he spoke openly and nobly. It is the beginning of a full confession to your father.’

‘So, it is true!’ exclaimed Amabel, as if she heard it for the first time. ‘How shocked mamma will be! I don’t know how to think it possible! And poor Laura! Imagine what she must have gone through, for you know I never spared the worst accounts. Do tell me all.’

Guy told what he had just heard, and she was indignant.

‘I can’t be as angry with him as I should like,’ said she, ‘now that he is sorry and ill; but it was a great deal too bad! I can’t think how he could look any of us in the face, far less expect to rule us all, and interfere with you!’

‘I see I never appreciated the temptations of poverty,’ said Guy, thoughtfully. ‘I have often thought of those of wealth, but never of poverty.’

‘I wish you would not excuse him. I don’t mind your doing it about ourselves, because, though he made you unhappy, he could not make you do wrong. Ah! I know what you mean; but that was over after the first minute; and he only made you better for all his persecution; but I don’t know how to pardon his making poor Laura so miserable, and leading her to do what was not right. Poor, dear girl! no wonder she looked so worn and unhappy! I cannot help being angry with him, indeed, Guy!’ said she, her eyes full of tears.

‘The best pleading is his own repentance, Amy. I don’t think you can be very unrelenting when you see how subdued and how altered he is. You know you are to make him a visit to-morrow, now the doctor says all fear of infection is over.’

‘I shall be thinking of poor Laura the whole time.’

‘And how she would like to see him in his present state? What shall you do if I bring him home to Redclyffe? Shall you go to Hollywell, to comfort Laura?’

‘I shall wait till you send me. Besides, how can you invite company till we know whether we have a roof over our house or not? What is he doing now?’

‘As usual, he has an unlimited capacity for sleep.’

‘I wish you had. I don’t think you have slept two hours together since you left off sitting up.’

‘I am beginning to think it a popular delusion. I do just as well without it.’

‘So you say; but Mr. Shene would never have taken such a fancy to you, if you always had such purple lines as those under your eyes. Look! Is that a face for Sir Galahad, or Sir Guy, or any of the Round Table? Come, I wish you would lie down, and be read to sleep.’

‘I should like a walk much better. It is very cool and bright. Will you come?’

They walked for some time, talking over the conduct of Philip and Laura. Amabel seemed quite oppressed by the thought of such a burthen of concealment. She said she did not know what she should have done in her own troubles without mamma and Charlie; and she could not imagine Laura’s keeping silence through the time of Philip’s danger; more especially as she recollected how appalling some of her bulletins had been. The only satisfaction was in casting as much of the blame on him as possible.

‘You know he never would let her read novels; and I do believe that was the reason she did not understand what it meant.’

‘I think there is a good deal in that,’ said Guy, laughing, ‘though Charlie would say it is a very novel excuse for a young lady falling imprudently in love.’

‘I do believe, if it was any one but Laura, Charlie would be very glad of it. He always fully saw through Philip’s supercilious shell.’

‘Amy!’

‘No; let me go on, Guy, for you must allow that it was much worse in such a grave, grand, unromantic person, who makes a point of thinking before he speaks, than if it had been a hasty, hand-over-head man like Maurice de Courcy, who might have got into a scrape without knowing it.

‘That must have made the struggle to confess all the more painful; and a most free, noble, open-hearted confession it was.’

They tried to recollect all that had passed during that summer, and to guess against whom he had wished to warn her; but so far were they from divining the truth, that they agreed it must either have been Maurice, or some other wild Irishman.

Next, they considered what was to be done. Philip must manage his confession his own way; but they had it in their power greatly to soften matters; and there was no fear that, after the first shock, Mr. Edmonstone would insist on the engagement being broken off, Philip should come to recover his health at Redclyffe, where he would be ready to meet the first advance towards forgiveness,—and Amabel thought it would soon be made. Papa’s anger was sharp, but soon over; he was very fond of Philip, and delighted in a love affair, but she was afraid mamma would not get over it so soon, for she would be excessively hurt and grieved. ‘And when I was naughty,’ said Amy, ‘nothing ever made me so sorry as mamma’s kindness.’

Guy launched out into more schemes for facilitating their marriage than ever he had made for himself; and the walk ended with extensive castle building on Philip’s account, in the course of which Amy was obliged to become much less displeased. Guy told her, in the evening, that she would have been still more softened if she could have heard him talk about Stylehurst and his father. Guy had always wished to hear him speak of the Archdeacon, though they had never been on terms to enter on such a subject. And now Philip had been much pleased by Guy’s account of his walks to Stylehurst, and taken pleasure in telling which were his old haunts, making out where Guy had been, and describing his father’s ways.