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Laura Lee Hope - "The Bobbsey Twins in the Country"

Plato - "Phaedo"

Charles Dickens - "George Silverman's Explanation"

Jack London - "Moon Face and Other Stories"

The Heir of Redclyffe

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Heir of Redclyffe




'You have told--'

'Of the cheque,' broke in Mr. Edmonstone, 'and of all the rest, and of
your providing for the little girl. How could you do it with that
pittance of an allowance of yours? And Master Philip saying you never
had any money! No wonder, indeed!'

'If I had known you were pinching yourself,' said Dixon, 'my mind would
have revolted--'

'Let me understand it,' said Guy, grasping the back of a chair. 'Tell
me, Markham. Is it really so? Am I cleared? Has Mr. Edmonstone a
right to be satisfied?'

'Yes, Sir Guy,' was Markham's direct answer. 'Mr. Dixon has accounted
for your disposal of the thirty pound cheque, and there is an end of
the matter.'

Guy drew a long breath, and the convulsive grasp of his fingers
relaxed.

'I cannot thank you enough!' said he to his uncle; then to Mr.
Edmonstone, 'how is Charles?'

'Better--much better, you shall see him to-morrow--eh, Guy?'

'But I cannot explain about the one thousand pounds.'

'Never mind--you never had it, so you can't have misspent it. That's
neither here nor there.'

'And you forgive my language respecting you?'

'Nonsense about that! If you never said anything worse than that
Philip was a meddling coxcomb, you haven't much to repent of; and I am
sure I was ten old fools when I let him bore me into writing that
letter.'

'No, no; you did right under your belief; and circumstances were strong
against me. And is it clear? Are we where we were before?'

'We are--we are in everything, only we know better what you are worth,
Guy. Shake hands once more. There's an end of all misunderstanding
and vexation, and we shall be all right at home again!'

The shake was a mighty one. Guy shaded his face for a moment or two,
and then said--

'It is too much. I don't understand it. How did you know this matter
wanted explanation?' said he, turning to his uncle.

'I learnt it from Mr. Markham, and you will do me the justice to
believe, that I was greatly shocked to find that your generosity--'

'The truth of the matter is this,' said Markham. 'You sent me to Miss
Wellwood's, at St. Mildred's. The principal was not within, and while
waiting for her to make the payment, I got into conversation with her
sister, Miss Jane. She told me that the child, Mr. Dixon's daughter,
was always talking of your kindness, especially of a morning at St.
Mildred's, when you helped him in some difficulty. I thought this
threw some light on the matter, found out Mr. Dixon this morning, and
you see the result.'

'I do, indeed,' said Guy; 'I wish I could attempt to thank you all.'

'Thanks enough for me to see you look like yourself,' said Markham.
'Did you think I was going to sit still and leave you in the mess you
had got yourself into, with your irregularity about keeping your
accounts?'

'And to you,' said Guy, looking at his uncle, as if it was especially
pleasant to be obliged to him. 'You never can guess what I owe to
you!'

'Nay, I deserve no thanks at all,' said Sebastian, 'since I was the
means of bringing the imputation on you; and I am sure it is enough for
a wretch like me, not to have brought only misery wherever I turn--to
have done something to repair the evil I have caused. Oh, could I but
bring back your father to what he was when first I saw him as you are
now!'

He was getting into one of those violent fits of self-reproach, at once
genuine and theatrical, of which Guy had a sort of horror, and it was
well Mr. Edmonstone broke in, like comedy into tragedy.

'Come, what's past can't be helped, and I have no end of work to be
done, so there's speechifying enough for once. Mr. Dixon, you must not
be going. Sit down and look over the newspaper, while we sign these
papers. You must dine with us, and drink your nephew's health, though
it is not his real birthday.'

Guy was much pleased that Mr. Edmonstone should have given this
invitation, as well as with the consideration Markham had shown for
Dixon in his narration. Mr. Dixon, who had learnt to consider parents
and guardians as foes and tyrants, stammered and looked confused and
enraptured; but it appeared that he could not stay, for he had a
professional engagement. He gave them an exhortation to come to the
concert where he was employed, and grew so ardent in his description of
it, that Guy could have wished to go; but his companions were in haste
to say there was far too much to do. And the next moment Guy told
himself, that Mr. Edmonstone's good-natured face and joyous 'eh, Guy?'
were more to him than any music he could hear nearer than Hollywell.

He went down-stairs with his uncle, who all the way raved about the
music, satisfied to find ears that could comprehend, and was too full
of it even to attend or respond to the parting thanks, for his last
words were something about a magnificent counter-tenor.

Guy walked up slowly, trying to gather his thoughts: but when it came
back to him that Amy was his again, his brain seemed to reel with
ecstasy, and it would have taken far more time than he could spare to
recall his sober senses, so he opened the door, to convince himself at
least of Mr. Edmonstone's presence, and was received with another shake
of the hand.

'So here you are again. I was afraid he was carrying you off to his
concert after all! I believe you have half a mind for it. Do you
like to stay in London for the next? Eh, Guy?' and it was good to hear
Mr. Edmonstone's hearty laugh, as he patted his ward on the shoulder,
saw his blushing, smiling shake of the head, and gave a knowing look,
which let in a fresh light on Markham, and luckily was unseen by Guy.

'Well,' continued Mr. Edmonstone, 'the man is more gentlemanlike than I
expected. A good sort of fellow at the bottom, I dare say. He was
pretty considerably shocked to find he had brought you into such a
scrape.'

'He is very generous,' said Guy. 'Oh, there is much of a noble
character in him.'

'Noble! humph!' put in Markham. 'He has gone down-hill fast enough,
since I used to see him in your father's time; but I am glad he had the
decency not to be the undoing of you.'

'His feeling is his great point,' said Guy, 'when you can once get at
it. I wish--' But breaking off short, 'I can't make it out. What did
little Marianne tell you? Or was it Miss Wellwood?'

'It was first the youngest sister,' said Markham. 'I sat there talking
to her some little time; she said you had been very kind to the family,
and the child was very grateful to you--was always talking of some
morning when you and your dog came, and helped her mother. Her father
had been out all night, and her mother was crying, she said, and
declaring he would be sent to prison, till you came and helped them.'

'Yes, that's it,' said Guy.

'Well, I remembered what you had told me of the mystery of the draft,
and guessed that this might be the clue to it. I begged to see the
child, and in she came, the very image of your mother, and a sharp
little thing that knew what she meant, but had not much idea of the
shame, poor child, about her father. She told me the story of his
coming home in the morning, and her mother being in great distress, and
saying they were ruined, till you came and talked to her mother, and
gave her something. I asked if it was money, and she said it was
paper. I showed her a draft, and she knew it was like that. So then I
made her tell me where to find her father, whom I used to know in old
times, and had to write to, now and then. I hunted him up, and a
creditable figure he was, to be sure; but I got the truth out of him at
last, and when he heard you had got into disgrace on his account, he
raved like a tragedy hero, and swore he would come and tell your
guardian the whole story. I put him into a cab for fear he should
repent, and he had just got to the end of it when you came in.'

'It is of no use to thank you again, Markham!'

'Why, I have been getting your family out of scrapes these forty years
or thereabouts,' said Markham; ''tis all I am good for; and if they had
been no worse than this one it would be better for all of us. But time
is getting on, and there is enough to do.'

To the accounts they went at once. There was a good deal to be
settled; and though Guy had as yet no legal power, according to his
grandfather's will, he was of course consulted about everything. He
was glad that, since he could not be alone to bring himself to the
realization of his newly-recovered happiness, he should have this
sobering and engrossing occupation. There he sat, coolly discussing
leases and repairs, and only now and then allowing himself a sort of
glimpse at the treasury of joy awaiting him whenever he had time to
dwell on it. The Coombe Prior matters were set in a better train, the
preliminary arrangements about the curacy were made, and Guy had hopes
it would be his friend Mr. Wellwood's title for Orders.

There was no time to write to Hollywell, or rather Mr. Edmonstone
forgot to do so till it was too late, and then consoled himself by
observing that it did not signify if his family were taken by surprise,
since joy killed no one.

His family were by no means of opinion that it did not signify when the
next morning's post brought them no letter. Mrs Edmonstone and Charles
had hoped much, and Amy did not know how much she hoped until the
melancholy words, 'no letter,' passed from one to the other.

To make it worse, by some of those mismanagements of Mr. Edmonstone's
which used to run counter to his wife's arrangements, a dinner-party
had been fixed for this identical Wednesday, and the prospect was
agreeable to no one, especially when the four o'clock train did not
bring Mr. Edmonstone, who, therefore, was not to be expected till
seven, when all the world would be arrived.

Laura helped Amy to dress, put the flowers in her hair, kissed her, and
told her it was a trying day; and Amy sighed wearily, thanked her, and
went down with arms twined in hers, whispering, 'If I could help being
so foolish as to let myself have a little hope!'

Laura thought the case so hopeless, that she was sorry Amy could not
cease from the foolishness, and did not answer. Amy sat down at the
foot of the sofa, whither Charles was now carried down every day, and
without venturing to look at him, worked at her netting. A carriage--
her colour came and went, but it was only some of the guests; another--
the Brownlows. Amy was speaking to Miss Brownlow when she heard more
greetings; she looked up, caught by the arm of the sofa, and looked
again. Her father was pouring out apologies and welcomes, and her
mother was shaking hands with Guy.

Was it a dream? She shut her eyes, then looked again. He was close to
her by this time, she felt his fingers close on her white glove for one
moment, but she only heard his voice in the earnest 'How are you,
Charlie?' Her father came to her, gave her first his usual kiss of
greeting, then, not letting her go, looked at her for a moment, and, as
if he could not help it, kissed her on both cheeks, and said, 'How d'ye
do, my little Amy?' in a voice that meant unutterable things. All the
room was swimming round; there was nothing for it but to run away, and
she ran, but from the ante-room she heard the call outside, 'Sir Guy's
bag to his room,' and she could not rush out among the servants. At
that moment, however, she spied Mary Ross and her father; she darted up
to them, said something incoherent about Mary's bonnet, and took her up
to her own room.

'Amy, my dear, you look wild. What has come to you?'

'Papa is come home, and--' the rest failed, and Amy was as red as the
camellia in her hair.

'And?' repeated Mary, 'and the mystery is explained?'

'Oh! I don't know; they are only just come, and I was so silly, I ran
away,--I did not know what to do.'

'_They_ are come, are they?' thought Mary. 'My little Amy, I see it
all.'

She made the taking off her bonnet and the settling her lace as
elaborate an operation as she could, and Amy flitted about as if she
did not by any means know what she was doing. A springy, running step
was heard on the stairs and in the passage, and Mary, though she could
not see her little friend's face, perceived her neck turn red for a
moment, after which Amy took her arm, pressed it affectionately, and
they went down.

Mrs. Edmonstone was very glad to see Amabel looking tolerably natural.
'Mamma' was of course burning to hear all, but she was so confident
that the essentials were safe, that her present care was to see how her
two young lovers would be able to comport themselves, and to be on her
guard against attending to them more than to her guests.

Amy, after passing by Charles, and getting a squeeze from his ever-
sympathizing hand, put herself away behind Mary, while Laura talked to
every one, hoping to show that there was some self-possession in the
family. Guy reappeared, but, after one glance to see if Amy was
present, he did not look at her again, but went and leant over the
lower end of Charles's sofa, just as he used to do; and Charles lay
gazing at him, and entirely forgetting what he had been trying to say
just before to Mrs. Brownlow, professing to have come from London that
morning, and making the absent mistakes likely to be attributed to the
lovers themselves.

Mr. Edmonstone came, and dinner followed. As Mrs. Edmonstone paired
off her company, she considered what to do with her new arrival.

'If you had come two hours ago,' said she, within herself, 'I would
have let you be at home. Now you must be a great man, and be content
with me. It will be better for Amy.'

Accordingly Guy was between her and Mrs. Gresham. She did not try to
speak to him, and was amused by his fitful attempts at making
conversation with Mrs. Gresham, when it struck him that he ought to be
taking notice of her. Amy (very fortunately, in her own opinion) was
out of sight of him, on the same side of the table, next to Mr. Ross,
who, like his daughter, guessed enough about the state of things to let
her alone.

Charles was enjoying all manner of delightful conjectures with
Charlotte, till the ladies returned to the drawing-room, and then he
said as much as he dared to Mary Ross, far more than she had gained
from Laura, who, as they came out of the dining-room, had said,--

'Don't ask me any questions, for I know nothing at all about it.'

Amy was talked to by Mrs. Gresham about club-books, and new flowers, to
which she was by this time able to attend very well, satisfied that his
happiness had returned, and content to wait till the good time for
knowing how. She could even be composed when the gentlemen came in,
Guy talking to Mr. Ross about Coombe Prior, and then going to Charles;
but presently she saw no more, for a request for music was made, and
she was obliged to go and play a duet with Laura. She did not dislike
this, but there followed a persecution for some singing. Laura would
have spared her, but could not; and while she was turning over the book
to try to find something that was not impossible to begin, and Laura
whispering encouragingly, 'This--try this--your part is almost nothing;
or can't you do this?' another hand turned over the leaves, as if
perfectly at home in them, and, without speaking, as if it was natural
for him to spare Amy, found a song which they had often sung together,
where she might join as much or as little as she chose, under cover of
his voice. She had not a thought or sensation beyond the joy of
hearing it again, and she stood, motionless, as if in a trance. When
it was over, he said to Laura, 'I beg your pardon for making such bad
work. I am so much out of practice.'

Mrs. Brownlow was seen advancing on them; Amy retreated, leaving Guy
and Laura to fulfil all that was required of them, which they did with
a very good grace, and Laura's old familiar feeling began to revive, so
much that she whispered while he was finding the place, 'Don't you
dislike all this excessively?'

'It does as well as anything else, thank you,' was the answer. 'I can
do it better than talking.'

At last they were released, and the world was going away. Mary could
not help whispering to Mrs. Edmonstone, 'How glad you must be to get
rid of us!' and, as Mrs. Edmonstone answered with a smile, she ventured
further to say,--'How beautifully Amy has behaved!'

Little Amy, as soon as she had heard the last carriage roll off, wished
every one good night, shook hands with Guy, holding up the lighted
candle between him and her face as a veil, and ran away to her own
room. The others remained in a sort of embarrassed silence, Mr.
Edmonstone rubbing his hands; Laura lighted the candles, Charlotte
asked after Bustle, and was answered that he was at Oxford, and
Charles, laying hold of the side of the sofa, pulled himself by it into
a sitting posture.

'Shall I help you?' said Guy.

'Thank you, but I am not ready yet; besides, I am an actual log now,
and am carried as such, so it is of no use to wait for me. Mamma shall
have the first turn, and I won't even leave my door open.'

'Yes, yes, yes; go and have it out with mamma, next best to Amy
herself, as she is run away--eh, Guy?' said Mr. Edmonstone.

Guy and Mrs. Edmonstone had not hitherto trusted themselves to speak to
each other, but they looked and smiled; then, wishing the rest good
night, they disappeared. Then there was a simultaneous outbreak of
'Well?'

'All right!' said Mr. Edmonstone. 'Every word was untrue. He is the
noblest fellow in the world, as I knew all the time, and I was an old
fool for listening to a pack of stories against him.'

'Hurrah!' cried Charles, drumming on the back of his sofa. 'Let us
hear how the truth came out, and what it was.'

'It was that Dixon. There has he been helping that man for ever,
sending his child to school, giving him sums upon sums, paying his
gaming debts with that cheque!'

'Oh, oh!' cried Charles.

'Yes that was it! The child told Markham of it, and Markham brought
the father to tell me. It puts me in a rage to think of the monstrous
stories Philip has made me believe!'

'I was sure of it!' cried Charles. 'I knew it would come out that he
had only been so much better than other people that nobody could
believe it. Cleared! cleared! Why, Charlotte, Mr. Ready-to-halt will
be for footing it cleverly enough!' as she was wildly curvetting round
him.

'I was always sure,' said Mr. Edmonstone. 'I knew it was not in him to
go wrong. It was only Philip, who would persuade me black was white.'

'I never believed one word of it,' said Charles; 'still less after I
saw Philip's animosity.'

'"Les absens ont toujours tort,"' interrupted Laura; then, afraid of
saying too much, she added,--'Come, Charlotte, it is very late.'

'And I shall be the first to tell Amy!' cried Charlotte. 'Good night,
papa!--good night, Charlie!'

She rushed up-stairs, afraid of being forestalled. Laura lingered,
putting some books away in the ante-room, trying to overcome the weary
pain at her heart. She did not know how to be confident. Her father's
judgment was worthless in her eyes, and Philip had predicted that Amy
would be sacrificed after all. To see them happy made her sigh at the
distance of her own hopes, and worse than all was self-reproach for
unkindness in not rejoicing with the rest, in spite of her real
affection for Guy himself. When she thought of him, she could not
believe him guilty; when she thought of Philip's belief, she could not
suppose him innocent, and she pitied her sister for enjoying a delusive
happiness. With effort, however, she went to her room, and, finding
her a little overpowered by Charlotte's tumultuous joy, saw that peace
and solitude were best for her till she could have more certain
intelligence, and, after very tender good-nights, carried off
Charlotte.

It would be hard to describe Mrs. Edmonstone's emotion, as she preceded
Guy to the dressing-room, and sat down, looking up to him as he stood
in his old place by the fire. She thought he did not look well, though
it might be only that the sun-burnt colour had given place to his
natural fairness; his eyes, though bright as ever, did not dance and
sparkle; a graver expression sat on his brow; and although he still
looked very young, a change there certainly was, which made him man
instead of boy--a look of having suffered, and conquered suffering.
She felt even more motherly affection for him now than when he last
stood there in the full tide of his first outburst of his love for her
daughter, and her heart was almost too full for speech; but he seemed
to be waiting for her, and at last she said,--'I am very glad to have
you here again.'

He smiled a little, then said, 'May I tell you all about it?'

'Sit down here. I want very much to hear it. I am sure you have gone
through a good deal.'

I have, indeed,' said he, simply and gravely; and there was a silence,
while she was certain that, whatever he might have endured, he did not
feel it to have been in vain.

' But it is at an end,' said she. 'I have scarcely seen Mr. Edmonstone,
but he tells me he is perfectly satisfied.'

'He is so kind as to be satisfied, though you know I still cannot
explain about the large sum I asked him for.'

'We will trust you,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling, 'but I am very
anxious to hear how you came to an understanding.'

Guy went over the story in detail, and very much affected she was to
hear how entirely unfounded had been the suspicion, and how thankful he
was for Mr. Edmonstone's forgiveness.

'You had rather to forgive us!' said she.

'You forget how ill I behaved,' said Guy, colouring. 'If you knew the
madness of those first moments of provocation, you would think that the
penance of a lifetime, instead of only one winter, would scarce have
been sufficient.'

'You would not say, as Charles does, that the suspicion justified your
anger?'

'No, indeed!' He paused, and spoke again. 'Thank Heaven, it did not
last long; but the insight it gave me into the unsubdued evil about me
was a fearful thing.'

'But you conquered it. They were the unguarded exclamations of the
first shock. Your whole conduct since, especially the interview with
Philip, has shown that your anger has not been abiding, and that you
have learnt to subdue it.'

'It could not abide, for there was no just cause of offence. Of course
such a dreadful outburst warned me to be on my guard; and you know the
very sight of Philip is a warning that there is danger in that way! I
mean,' said Guy, becoming conscious that he had been very severe, 'I
mean that I know of old that I am apt to be worried by his manner, and
that ought to make me doubly cautious.'

Mrs. Edmonstone was struck by the soberer manner in which he spoke of
his faults. He was as ready to take full blame, but without the
vehemence which he used to expend in raving at himself instead of at
the offender. It seemed as if he had brought himself to the tone he
used to desire so earnestly.

'I am very glad to be able to explain all to Philip,' he said.

'I will write as soon as possible. Oh, Mrs. Edmonstone! if you knew
what it is to be brought back to such unhoped-for happiness, to sit
here once more, with you,'--his voice trembled, and the tears were in
her eyes,--'to have seen _her_, to have all overlooked, and return to
all I hoped last year. I want to look at you all, to believe that it
is true,' he finished, smiling.

'You both behaved very well this evening,' said she, laughing, because
she could do so better than anything else at that moment.

'You both!' murmured Guy to himself.

'Ah! little Amy has been very good this winter.'

He answered her with a beautiful expression of his eyes, was silent a
little while, and suddenly exclaimed, in a candid, expostulating tone,
'But now, seriously, don't you think it a very bad thing for her?'

'My dear Guy,' said she, scarcely repressing a disposition to laugh, 'I
told you last summer what I thought of it, and you must settle the rest
with Amy to-morrow. I hear the drawing-room bell, which is a sign I
must send you to bed. Good night!'

'Good night!' repeated Guy, as he held her hand. 'It is so long since
I have had any one to wish me good night! Good night, mamma!'

She pressed his hand, then as he ran down to lend a helping hand in
carrying Charles, she, the tears in her eyes, crossed the passage to
see how it was with her little Amy, and to set her at rest for the
night. Amy's candle was out, and she was in bed, lying full in the
light of the Easter moon, which poured in glorious whiteness through
her window. She started up as the door opened. 'Oh, mamma! how kind
of you to come!'

'I can only stay a moment, my dear; your papa is coming up; but I must
just tell you that I have been having such a nice talk with dear Guy.
He has behaved beautifully, and papa is quite satisfied. Now, darling,
I hope you will not lie awake all night, or you won't be fit to talk to
him to-morrow.'

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