The Heir of Redclyffe

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

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'Nay,' said Amy, smiling, 'you have not much to reproach yourself with
in that way. It was I that always abused him.'

'You can never do so again '

'No, I don't think I can, now I have seen his sorrow.'

Amabel was quite in spirits, as she brought her writing to his bed-
side, and read her sentences to him as she composed the letter to her
father, while he suggested and approved. It was a treat indeed to have
him able to consult with her once more, and he looked so much relieved
and so much better, that she felt as if it was the beginning of real
improvement, though still his pulse was fast, and the fever, though
lessened, was not gone.

The letter was almost as much his as her own, and he ended his
dictation thus: 'Say that I am sure that if I get better we may make
arrangements for their marriage.'

Then, as Amy was finishing the letter with her hopes of his amendment,
he added, speaking to her, and not dictating-- 'If not,'--she shrank
and shivered, but did not exclaim, for he looked so calm and happy that
she did not like to interrupt him-- 'If not, you know, it will be very
easy to put the money matters to rights, whatever may happen.'

CHAPTER 34

Sir,
It is your fault I have loved Posthumus;
You bred him as my playfellow; and he is
A man worth any woman, over-buys me
Almost the sum he pays.--CYMBELINE

The first tidings of Philip's illness arrived at Hollywell one morning
at breakfast, and were thus announced by Charles--

'There! So he has been and gone and done it.'

'What? Who? Not Guy?'

'Here has the Captain gone and caught a regular bad fever, in some
malaria hole; delirious, and all that sort of thing, and of course our
wise brother and sister must needs go and nurse him, by way of a pretty
little interlude in their wedding tour!'

Laura's voice alone was unheard in the chorus of inquiry. She sat
cold, stiff, and silent, devouring with her ears each reply, that fell
like a death-blow, while she was mechanically continuing the
occupations of breakfast. When all was told, she hurried to her own
room, but the want of sympathy was becoming intolerable. If Amabel had
been at home, she must have told her all. There was no one else; and
the misery to be endured in silence was dreadful. Her dearest--her
whole joy and hope--suffering, dying, and to hear all round her
speaking of him with kindness, indeed, but what to her seemed
indifference; blaming him for wilfulness, saying he had drawn it on
himself,--it seemed to drive her wild. She conjured up pictures of his
sufferings, and dreaded Guy's inexperience, the want of medical advice,
imagining everything that was terrible. Her idol, to whom her whole
soul was devoted, was passing from her, and no one pitied her; while
the latent consciousness of disobedience debarred her from gaining
solace from the only true source. All was blank desolation--a, wild
agony, untempered by resignation, uncheered by prayer; for though she
did pray, it was without trust, without hope, while her wretchedness
was rendered more overwhelming by her efforts to conceal it. These
were so far ineffectual that no one could help perceiving that she was
extremely unhappy, but then all the family knew she was very fond of
Philip, and neither her mother nor brother could be surprised at her
distress, though it certainly appeared to them excessive. Mrs.
Edmonstone was very sorry for her, and very affectionate and
considerate; but Laura was too much absorbed, in her own feelings to
perceive or to be grateful for her kindness; and as each day brought a
no better report, her despair became so engrossing that she could not
attempt any employment. She wandered in the garden, sat in dreamy fits
of silence in the house, and at last, after receiving one of the worst
accounts, sat up in her dressing-gown the whole of one night, in one
dull, heavy, motionless trance of misery.

She recollected that she must act her part, dressed in the morning and
came down; but her looks were ghastly; she tasted no food, and as soon
as possible left the breakfast-room. Her mother was going in quest of
her when old nurse came with an anxious face to say,--'Ma'am, I am
afraid Miss Edmonstone must be very ill, or something. Do you know,
ma'am, her bed has not been slept in all night?'

'You don't say so, nurse!'

'Yes, ma'am, Jane told me so, and I went to look myself. Poor child,
she is half distracted about Master Philip, and no wonder, for they
were always together; but I thought you ought to know, ma'am, for she
will make herself ill, to a certainty.'

'I am going to see about her this moment, nurse,' said Mrs. Edmonstone;
and presently she found Laura wandering up and down the shady walk, in
the restlessness of her despair.

'Laura, dearest,' said she, putting her arm round her, 'I cannot bear
to see you so unhappy.'

Laura did not answer; for though solitude was oppressive, every one's
presence was a burthen.

'I cannot think it right to give way thus,' continued her mother. 'Did
you really sit up all night, my poor child?'

'I don't know. They did so with him!'

'My dear, this will never do. You are making yourself seriously
unwell.'

'I wish--I wish I was ill; I wish I was dying!' broke from Laura,
almost unconsciously, in a hoarse, inward voice.

'My dear! You don't know what you are saying. You forget that this
self-abandonment, and extravagant grief would be wrong in any one; and,
if nothing else, the display is unbecoming in you.'

Laura's over-wrought feelings could bear no more, and in a tone which,
though too vehement to be addressed to a parent, had in it an agony
which almost excused it, by showing how unable she was to restrain
herself, she broke forth:-- 'Unbecoming! Who has a right to grieve for
him but me?--his own, his chosen,--the only one who can love him, or
understand him. Her voice died away in a sob, though without tears.

Her mother heard the words, but did not take in their full meaning;
and, believing that Laura's undeveloped affection had led her to this
uncontrolled grief, she spoke again, with coldness, intended to rouse
her to a sense that she was compromising her womanly dignity.

'Take care, Laura; a woman has no right to speak in such a manner of a
man who has given her no reason to believe in his preference of her.'

'Preference! It is his love!--his love! His whole heart! The one
thing that was precious to me in this world! Preference! You little
guess what we have felt for each other!'

'Laura!' Mrs. Edmonstone stood still, overpowered. 'What do you
mean?' She could not put the question more plainly.

'What have I done?' cried Laura. 'I have betrayed him!' she answered
herself in a tone of despair, as she hid her face in her hands;
'betrayed him when he is dying!'

Her mother was too much shocked to speak in the soft reluctant manner
in which she was wont to reprove.

'Laura,' said she, 'I must understand this. What has passed between
you and Philip?'

Laura only replied by a flood of tears, ungovernable from the
exhaustion of sleeplessness and want of food. Mrs. Edmonstone's
kindness returned; she soothed her, begged her to control herself, and
at length brought her into the house, and up to the dressing-room,
where she sank on the sofa, weeping violently. It was the reaction of
the long restraint she had been exercising on herself, and the silence
she had been maintaining. She was not feeling the humiliation, her own
acknowledgement of disobedience, but of the horror of being forced to
reveal the secret he had left in her charge.

Long did she weep, breaking out more piteously at each attempt of her
mother to lead her to explain. Poor Mrs. Edmonstone was alarmed and
perplexed beyond measure; this half confession had so overthrown all
her ideas that she was ready to apprehend everything most improbable,
and almost expected to hear of a private marriage. Her presence seemed
only to make Laura worse, and at length she said,--'I shall leave you
for half an hour, in hopes that by that time you may have recovered
yourself, and be able to give the explanation which I _require_.'

She went into her own room, and waited, with her eyes on her watch, a
prey to every strange alarm and anticipation, grievously hurt at this
want of confidence, and wounded, where she least expected it, by both
daughter and nephew. She thought, guessed, recollected, wondered,
tormented herself, and at the last of the thirty minutes, hastily
opened the door into the dressing-room. Laura sat as before, crouched
up in the corner of the wide sofa; and when she raised her face, at her
mother's entrance, it was bewildered rather than embarrassed.

'Well, Laura?' She waited unanswered; and the wretchedness of the look
so touched her, that, kissing her, she said, 'Surely, my dear, you need
not be afraid to tell me anything?'

Laura did not respond to the kindness, but asked, looking perplexed,
'What have I said? Have I told it?'

'What you have given me reason to believe,' said Mrs. Edmonstone,
trying to bring herself to speak it explicitly, 'that you think Philip
is attached to you. You do not deny it. Let me know on what terms you
stand.'

Without looking up, she murmured, 'If you would not force it from me at
such a time.'

'Laura, it is for your own good. You are wretched now, my poor child;
why not relieve yourself by telling all? If you have not acted openly,
can you have any comfort till you have confessed? It may be a painful
effort, but relief will come afterwards.'

'I have nothing to confess,' said Laura. 'There is no such thing as
you think.'

'No engagement?'

'No.'

'Then what am I to understand by your exclamations?'

'It is no engagement,' repeated Laura. 'He would never have asked that
without papa's consent. We are only bound by our own hearts.'

'And you have a secret understanding with him?'

'We have never written to each other; we have never dreamed of any
intercourse that could be called clandestine. He would scorn it. He
waited only for his promotion to declare it to papa.'

'And how long has it been declared to you?'

'Ever since the first summer Guy was here.'

'Three years!' exclaimed her mother. 'You have kept this from me three
years! 0 Laura!'

'It was of no use to speak!' said Laura, faintly.

If she had looked up, she would have seen those words, 'no use,' cut
her mother more deeply than all; but there was only coldness in the
tone of the answer, 'No use to inform your parents, before you pledged
your affections!'

'Indeed, mamma,' said Laura, 'I was sure that you knew his worth.'

'Worth! when he was teaching you to live in a course of insincerity?
Your father will be deeply hurt.'

'Papa! Oh, you must not tell him! Now, I have betrayed him, indeed!
Oh, my weakness!' and another paroxysm of tears came on.

'Laura, you seem to think you owe nothing to any one but Philip. You
forget you are a daughter! that you have been keeping up a system of
disobedience and concealment, of which I could not have believed a
child of mine could be capable. 0 Laura, how you have abused our
confidence!'

Laura was touched by the sorrow of her tone; and, throwing her arms
round her neck, sobbed out, 'You will forgive me, only forgive him!'

Mrs. Edmonstone was softened in a moment. 'Forgive you, my poor child!
You have been very unhappy!' and she kissed her, with many tears.

'Must you tell papa?' whispered Laura.

'Judge for yourself, Laura. Could I know such a thing, and hide it
from him?'

Laura ceased, seeing her determined, and yielded to her pity, allowing
herself to be nursed as she required, so exhausted was she. She was
laid on the sofa, and made comfortable with pillows, in her mother's
gentlest way. When Mrs. Edmonstone was called away, Laura held her
dress, saying, 'You are kind to me, but you must forgive him. Say you
have forgiven him, mamma, dearest!'

'My dear, in the grave all things are forgiven.'

She could not help saying so; but, feeling as if she had been cruel,
she added, 'I mean, while he is so ill, we cannot enter on such a
matter. I am very sorry for you,' proceeded she, still arranging for
Laura's ease; then kissing her, hoped she would sleep, and left her.

Sympathy was a matter of necessity to Mrs. Edmonstone; and as her
husband was out, she went at once to Charles, with a countenance so
disturbed, that he feared some worse tidings had come from Italy.

'No, no, nothing of that sort; it is poor Laura.'

'Eh?' said Charles, with a significant though anxious look, that caused
her to exclaim,--

'Surely you had no suspicion!'

Charlotte, who was reading in the window, trembled lest she should be
seen, and sent away.

'I suspected poor Laura had parted with her heart. But what do you
mean? What has happened?'

'Could you have guessed? but first remember how ill he is; don't be
violent, Charlie. Could you have guessed that they have been engaged,
ever since the summer we first remarked them?'

She had expected a great storm; but Charles only observed, very coolly,
'Oh! it is come out at last!'

'You don't mean that you knew it?'

'No, indeed, you don't think they would choose me for their confidant!'

'Not exactly,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, with the odd sort of laugh with
which even the most sensitive people, in the height of their troubles,
reply to anything ludicrous; 'but really,' she continued, 'every idea
of mine is so turned upside-down, that I don't know what to think of
anybody.'

'We always knew Laura to be his slave and automaton. He is so
infallible in her eyes, that no doubt she thought her silence an act of
praiseworthy resolution.'

'She was a mere child, poor dear,' said her mother; 'only eighteen!
Yet Amy was but a year older last summer. How unlike! She must have
known what she was doing.'

'Not with her senses surrendered to him, without volition of her own.
I wonder by what magnetism he allowed her to tell?'

'She has gone through a great deal, poor child, and I am afraid there
is much more for her to suffer, whether he recovers or not.'

'He will recover' said Charles, with the decided manner in which people
prophesy the restoration of those they dislike, probably from a feeling
that they must not die, till there is more charity in their opinion of
them.

'Your father will be so grieved.'

'Well, I suppose we must begin to make the best of it,' said Charles.
'She has been as good as married to him these four years, for any use
she has been to us; it has been only the name of the thing, so he had
better--'

'My dear Charlie, what are you talking of? You don't imagine they can
marry?'

'They will some time or other, for assuredly neither will marry any one
else. You will see if Guy does not take up the cause, and return
Philip's meddling--which, by the bye, is now shown to have been more
preposterous still--by setting their affairs in order for them.'

'Dear Guy, it is a comfort not to have been deceived in him!'

'Except when you believed Philip,' said Charles.

'Could anything have been more different?' proceeded Mrs. Edmonstone;
'yet the two girls had the same training.'

'With an important exception,' said Charles; 'Laura is Philip's pupil,
Amy mine; and I think her little ladyship is the best turned out of
hand.'

'How shocked Amy will be! If she was but here, it would be much
better, for she always had more of Laura's confidence than I. Oh,
Charlie, there has been the error!' and Mrs. Edmonstone's eyes were
full of tears. 'What fearful mistake have I made to miss my daughter's
confidence!'

'You must not ask me, mother,' said Charles, face and voice full of
affectionate emotion. 'I know too well that I have been exacting and
selfish, taking too much advantage of your anxieties for me, and that
if you were not enough with my sisters when they were young girls, it
was my fault as much as my misfortune. But, after all, it has not hurt
Amy in the least; nor do I think it will hurt Charlotte.'

Charlotte did not venture to give way to her desire to kiss her mother,
and thank Charles, lest she should be exiled as an intruder.

'And,' proceeded Charles, serious, though somewhat roguish, 'I suspect
that no attention would have made much difference. You were always too
young, and Laura too much addicted to the physical sciences to get on
together.'

'A weak, silly mother, sighed Mrs. Edmonstone.

This was too much for Charlotte, who sprang forward, and flung her arms
round her neck, sobbing out,--

'Mamma! dear mamma! don't say such horrid things! No one is half so
wise or so good,--I am sure Guy thinks so too!'

At the same time Bustle, perceiving a commotion, made a leap, planted
his fore-feet on Mrs. Edmonstone's lap, wagging his tail vehemently,
and trying to lick her face. It was not in human nature not to laugh;
and Mrs. Edmonstone did so as heartily as either of the young ones;
indeed, Charlotte was the first to resume her gravity, not being sure
of her ground, and being hurt at her impulse of affection being thus
reduced to the absurd. She began to apologize,--

'Dear mamma, I could not help it. I thought you knew I wad in the
room.'

'My dear child,' and her mother kissed her warmly, 'I don't want to
hide anything from you. You are my only home-daughter now.' Then
recollecting her prudence, she proceeded,--'You are old enough to
understand the distress this insincerity of poor Laura's has
occasioned,--and now that Amy is gone, we must look to you to comfort
us.'

Did ever maiden of fourteen feel more honoured, and obliged to be very
good and wise than Charlotte, as she knelt by her mother's side?
Happily tact was coming with advancing years, and she did not attempt
to mingle in the conversation, which was resumed by Charles observing
that the strangest part of the affair was the incompatibility of so
novelish and imprudent a proceeding with the cautious, thoughtful
character of both parties. It was, he said, analogous to a pentagon
flirting with a hexagon; whereas Guy, a knight of the Round Table, in
name and nature, and Amy, with her little superstitions, had been
attached in the most matter-of-fact, hum-drum way, and were in a course
of living very happy ever after, for which nature could never have
designed them. Mrs. Edmonstone smiled, sighed, hoped they were
prudent, and wondered whether camphor and chloride of lime were
attainable at Recoara.

Laura came down no more that day, for she was worn out with agitation,
and it was a relief to be sufficiently unwell to be excused facing her
father and Charles. She had little hope that Charlotte had not heard
all; but she might seem to believe her ignorant, and could, therefore,
endure her waiting on her, with an elaborate kindness and compassion,
and tip-toe silence, far beyond the deserts of her slight
indisposition.

In the evening, Charles and his mother broke the tidings to Mr.
Edmonstone as gently as they could, Charles feeling bound to be the
cool, thinking head in the family. Of course Mr. Edmonstone stormed,
vowed that he could not have believed it, then veered round, and said
he could have predicted it from the first. It was all mamma's fault
for letting him be so intimate with the girls--how was a poor lad to be
expected not to fall in love? Next he broke into great wrath at the
abuse of his confidence, then at the interference with Guy, then at the
intolerable presumption of Philip's thinking of Laura. He would soon
let him know what he thought of it! When reminded of Philip's present
condition, he muttered an Irish imprecation on the fever for
interfering with his anger, and abused the 'romantic folly' that had
carried Guy to nurse him at Recoara. He was not so much displeased
with Laura; in fact he thought all young ladies always ready to be
fallen in love with, and hardly accountable for what their lovers might
make them do, and he pitied her heartily, when he heard of her sitting
up all night. Anything of extravagance in love met with sympathy from
him, and there was no effort in his hearty forgiveness of her. He
vowed that she should give the fellow up, and had she been present,
would have tried to make her do so at a moment's warning; but in
process of time he was convinced that he must not persecute her while
Philip was in extremity, and though, like Charles, he scorned the
notion of his death, and, as if it was an additional crime, pronounced
him to be as strong as a horse, he was quite ready to put off all
proceedings till his recovery, being glad to defer the evil day of
making her cry.

So when Laura ventured out, she met with nothing harsh; indeed, but for
the sorrowful kindness of her family towards her, she could hardly have
guessed that they knew her secret.

Her heart leapt when Amabel's letter was silently handed to her, and
she saw the news of Philip's amendment, but a sickening feeling
succeeded, that soon all forbearance would be at an end, and he must
hear that her weakness had betrayed his secret. For the present,
however, nothing was said, and she continued in silent dread of what
each day might bring forth, till one afternoon, when the letters had
been fetched from Broadstone, Mrs. Edmonstone, with an exclamation of
dismay, read aloud:--

'Recoara, September 8th.

'DEAREST MAMMA,--Don't be very much frightened when I tell you that Guy
has caught the fever. He has been ailing since Sunday, and yesterday
became quite ill; but we hope it will not be so severe an illness as
Philip's was. He sleeps a great deal, and is in no pain, quite
sensible when he is awake. Arnaud is very useful, and so is Anne; and
he is so quiet at night, that he wants no one but Arnaud, and will not
let me sit up with him. Philip is better.

'Your most affectionate,
'A.F.M.'

The reading was followed by a dead silence, then Mr. Edmonstone said he
had always known how it would be, and what would poor Amy do?

Mrs. Edmonstone was too unhappy to answer, for she could see no means
of helping them. Mr. Edmonstone was of no use in a sick-room, and she
had never thought it possible to leave Charles. It did not even occur
to her that she could do so till Charles himself suggested that she
must go to Amy.

'Can you spare me?' said she, as if it was a new light.

'Why not? Who can be thought of but Amy? She ought not to be a day
longer without you.'

'Dr. Mayerne would look in on you,' said she, considering, 'and Laura
can manage for you.'

'Oh, I shall do very well. Do you think I could bear to keep you from
her?'

'Some one must go,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, 'and even if I could think of
letting Laura run the risk, this unhappy affair about Philip puts her
going out of the question.'

'No one but you can go, said Charles; 'it is of no use to talk of
anything else.'

It was settled that if the next account was not more favourable, Mr.
and Mrs. Edmonstone should set off for Recoara. Laura heard, in
consternation at the thought of her father's meeting Philip, still weak
and unwell, without her, and perhaps with Guy too ill to be consulted.
And oh! what would Philip think of her? Her weakness had disclosed his
secret, and sunk her beneath him, and he must hear it from others. She
felt as if she could have thrown herself at her mother's feet as she
implored her to forbear, to spare him, to spare her. Her mother pitied
her incoherent distress, but it did not make her feel more in charity
with Philip. She would not promise that the subject should, not be
discussed, but she tried to reassure Laura by saying that nothing
should be done that could retard his recovery.

With this Laura was obliged to content herself; and early the second
morning, after the letter arrived, she watched the departure of her
father and mother.

She had expected to find the care of Charles very anxious work, but she
prospered beyond her hopes. He was very kind and considerate, and both
he and Charlotte were so sobered by anxiety, that there was no fear of
their spirits overpowering her.

Mary Ross used to come almost every afternoon to inquire. One day she
found Charles alone, crutching himself slowly along the terrace, and
she thought nothing showed the forlorn state of the family so much as
to see him out of doors with no one for a prop.

'Mary! Just as I wanted you!'

'What account?' said she, taking the place of one of the crutches.

'Excellent; the fever and drowsiness seem to be going off. It must
have been a light attack, and the elders will hardly come in time for
mamma to have any nursing. So there's Guy pretty well off one's mind.'

'And Amy?'

'This was such a long letter, and so cheerful, that she must be all
right. What I wanted to speak to you about was Laura. You know the
state of things. Well, the captain--I wish he was not so sorry, it
deprives one of the satisfaction of abusing him--the captain, it seems,
was brought to his senses by his illness, confessed all to Guy, and now
has written to tell the whole truth to my father.'