The Heir of Redclyffe

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

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Could Mrs. Henley have looked behind the scenes she would have
marvelled.

'One kiss for mamma; and one for papa,' was Amy's half-uttered morning
greeting, as she lifted from her cot her little one, with cheeks
flushed by sleep. Morning and evening Amy spoke those words, and was
happy in the double kiss that Mary had learnt to connect with them;
happy too in holding her up to the picture, and saying 'papa,' so that
his child might never recollect a time when he had not been a familiar
and beloved idea.

A little play with the merry child, then came Anne to take her away;
and with a suppressed sigh, Amabel dressed for the first time without
her weeds, which she had promised to leave off on Laura's wedding-day.

'No, I will not sigh!' then she thought, 'it does not put me further
from him. He would be more glad than any one this day, and so I must
show some sign of gladness.'

So she put on such a dress as would be hers for life--black silk, and
face cap over her still plain hair, then with real pleasure she put on
Charles's bracelet, and the silver brooch, which she had last worn the
evening when the echoes of Recoara had answered Guy's last chant. Soon
she was visiting Laura, cheering her, soothing her agitation, helping
her to dress in her bridal array, much plainer than Amy's own had been,
for it had been the especial wish of both herself and Philip that their
wedding should be as quiet and unlike Guy's as possible. Then Amabel
was running down-stairs to see that all was right, thinking the
breakfast-table looked dull and forlorn, and calling Charlotte to help
her to make it appear a little more festal, with the aid of some
flowers. Charlotte wondered to see that she had forgotten how she
shunned flowers last summer, for there she was flitting from one old
familiar plant to another in search of the choicest, arranging little
bouquets with her own peculiar grace and taste, and putting them by
each person's place, in readiness to receive them.

It was as if no one else could smile that morning, except Mr.
Edmonstone, who was so pleased to see her looking cheerful, in her
altered dress, that he kissed her repeatedly, and confidentially told
Mrs. Henley that his little Amy was a regular darling, the sweetest
girl in the world, poor dear, except Laura.

Mrs. Henley, in the richest of all silks, looked magnificent and
superior. Mrs. Edmonstone had tears in her eyes, and attended to every
one softly and kindly, without a word; Charlotte was grave, helpful,
and thoughtful; Charles watching every one, and intent on making things
smooth; Laura looked fixed in the forced composure which she had long
ago learnt, and Philip,--it was late before he appeared at all, and
when he came down, there was nothing so plainly written on his face as
headache.

It was so severe that the most merciful thing was to send him to lie on
the sofa in the dressing-room. Amabel said she would fetch him some
camphor, and disappeared, while Laura sat still with her forced
composure. Her father fidgeted, only restrained by her presence from
expressing his fears that Philip was too unwell for the marriage to
take place to-day, and Charles talked cheerfully of the great
improvement in his general health, saying this was but a chance thing,
and that on the whole he might be considered as quite restored.

Mrs. Henley listened and answered, but could not comprehend the state
of things. Breakfast was over, when she heard Amabel speaking to Laura
in the ante-room.

'It will go off soon. Here is a cup of hot coffee for you to take him.
I'll call you when it is time to go.'

Amabel and Charlotte were very busy looking after Laura's packing up,
and putting all that was wanted into the carriage, in which the pair
were to set off at once from church, without returning to Hollywell.

At the last moment she went to warn Philip it was time to go, if he
meant to walk to church alone, the best thing for his head.

'It is better,' said Laura, somewhat comforted.

'Much better for your bathing it, thank you,' said Philip, rising;
then, turning to Amy,--'Do I wish you good-bye now?'

'No, I shall see you at church, unless you don't like to have my
blackness there.'

'Would we not have our guardian angel, Laura?' said Philip.

'You know _he_ would have been there,' said Amy. 'No one would have
been more glad, so thank you for letting me come.'

'Thank you for coming,' said Laura, earnestly. 'It is a comfort.'

They left her, and she stood a few minutes to enjoy the solitude, and
to look from the window at her little girl, whom she had sent out with
Anne. She was just about to open the window to call to her, and make
her look up with one of her merry shouts of 'Mamma!' when Philip came
out at the garden-door, and was crossing the lawn. Mary was very fond
of him, flattered by the attention of the tallest person in the house,
and she stretched her arms, and gave a cry of summons. Amabel watched
him turn instantly, take her from her nurse, and hold her in a close
embrace, whilst her little round arms met round his neck. She was
unwilling to be restored to Anne, and when he left she looked up in his
face, and unprompted, held up to him the primroses and violets in her
hand.

Those flowers were in his coat when Amabel saw him again at church, and
she knew that this spontaneous proof of affection from Guy's little
unconscious child was more precious to him than all the kindnesses she
could bestow.

Little space was there for musing, for it was high time to set off for
church. Mary Ross met the party at the wicket of the churchyard, took
Charles on her arm, and by look and sign inquired for Amy.

'Bright outwardly,' he answered, 'and I think so inwardly. Nothing
does her so much good as to represent him. Did you wonder to see her?'

'No' said Mary. 'I thought she would come. It is the crowning point
of his forgiveness.'

'Such forgiveness that she has forgotten there is anything to forgive,'
said Charles.

Philip Morville and Laura Edmonstone stood before Mr. Ross. It was not
such a wedding as the last. There was more personal beauty, but no
such air of freshness, youth, and peace. He was, indeed, a very fine-
looking man, his countenance more noble than it had ever been, though
pale and not only betraying the present suffering of the throbbing,
burning brow, but with the appearance of a care-worn, harassed man,
looking more as if his age was five-and-thirty than eight-and-twenty.
And she, in her plain white muslin and quiet bonnet, was hardly bridal-
looking in dress, and so it was with her face, still beautiful and
brilliant in complexion, but with the weight of care permanent on it,
and all the shades of feeling concealed by a fixed command of
countenance, unable, however, to hide the oppression of dejection and
anxiety.

Yet to the eyes that only beheld the surface, there was nothing but
prosperity and happiness in a marriage between a pair who had loved so
long and devotedly, and after going through so much for each other's
sake, were united at length, with wealth, honour, and distinction
before them. His health was re-established, and the last spring had
proved that his talents would place him in such a position as had been
the very object of his highest hopes. Was not everything here for
which the fondest and most aspiring wishes could seek? Yet for the
very reason that there was sadness at almost every heart, not one tear
was shed. Mrs. Edmonstone's thoughts were less engrossed with the
bride than with the young slender figure in black, standing in her own
drooping way, her head bent down, and the fingers of her right hand
clasping tight her wedding-ring, through her white glove.

The service was over. Laura hung round her mother's neck in an ardent
embrace.

'Your pardon! 0, mamma, I see it all now!'

Poor thing! she had too much failed in a daughter's part to go forth
from her home with the clear, loving, hopeful heart her sister had
carried from it! Mrs. Edmonstone's kiss was a full answer, however, a
kiss unlike what it had been with all her efforts for many and many a
month.

'Amy, pray that it may not be visited!' were the last words breathed to
her sister, as they were pressed in each other's arms.

Philip scarcely spoke, only met their kindnesses with grateful gestures
and looks, and brief replies, and the parting was hastened that he
might as soon as possible be at rest. His only voluntary speech was as
he bade farewell to Amabel,--

'My sister now!'

'And _his_ brother,' she answered. 'Good-bye!'

As soon as Amabel was alone in the carriage with Charles, she leant
back, and gave way to a flood of tears.

'Amy, has it been too much?'

'No,' she said, recovering herself; 'but I am so glad! It was _his_
chief desire. Now everything he wished is fulfilled.'

'And you are free of your great charge. He has been a considerable
care to you, but now he is safe on Laura's hands, and well and
satisfactory; so you have no care but your daughter, and we settle into
our home life.'

Amabel smiled.

'Amy, I do wish I was sure you are happy.'

'Yes, dear Charlie, indeed I am. You are all so very kind to me, and
it is a blessing, indeed, that my own dear home can open to take in me
and baby. You know _he_ liked giving me back to you.'

'And it is happiness, not only thinking it ought to be! Don't let me
tease you, Amy, don't answer if you had rather not.'

'Thank you, Charlie, it _is_ happiness. It must be when I remember how
very happy he used to be, and there can be nothing to spoil it. When I
see how all the duties of his station worry and perplex Philip, I am
glad he was spared from it, and had all his freshness and brightness
his whole life. It beams out on me more now, and it was such perfect
happiness while I had him here, and it is such a pleasure and honour to
be called by his name; besides, there is baby. Oh! Charlie, I must be
happy--I am; do believe it! Indeed, you know I have you and mamma and
all too. And, Charlie, I think he made you all precious to me over
again by the way he loved you all, and sent me back, to you especially.
Yes, Charlie, you must not fancy I grieve. I am very happy, for he is,
and all I have is made bright and precious by him.'

'Yes,' said he, looking at her, as the colour had come into her face,
and she looked perfectly lovely with eager, sincere happiness; one of
her husband's sweetest looks reflected on her face; altogether, such a
picture of youth, joy, and love, as had not been displayed by the bride
that morning. 'Amy, I don't believe anything could make you long
unhappy!'

'Nothing but my own fault. Nothing else can part me from him,' she
whispered almost to herself.

'Yes; no one else had such a power of making happy,' said Charles,
thoughtfully. 'Amy, I really don't know whether even you owe as much
to your husband as I do. You were good for something before, but when
I look back on what I was when first he came, I know that his leading,
unconscious as it was, brought out the stifled good in me. What a
wretch I should have been; what a misery to myself and to you all by
this time, and now, I verily believe, that since he let in the sunlight
from heaven on me, I am better off than if I had as many legs as other
people.'

'Better off?'

'Yes. Nobody else lives in such an atmosphere of petting, and has so
little to plague them. Nobody else has such a "mamma," to say nothing
of silly little Amy, or Charlotte, or Miss Morville. And as to being
of no use, which I used to pine about--why, when the member for
Moorworth governs the country, I mean to govern him.'

'I am sure you are of wonderful use to every one,' said Amabel;
'neither Philip nor papa could get on without you to do their writing
for them. Besides, I want you to help me when baby grows older.'

'Is that the laudable result of that great book on education I saw you
reading the other day?' said Charles. 'Why don't you borrow a few
hints from Mrs. Henley?'

Amy's clear, playful laugh was just what it used to be.

'It is all settled, then, that you go on with us! Not that I ever
thought you were going to do anything so absurd as to set up for
yourself, you silly little woman: but it seems to be considered right
to come to a formal settlement about such a grand personage as my Lady
Morville.'

'Yes; it was better to come to an understanding,' said Amabel. 'It was
better that papa should make up his mind to see that I can't turn into
a young lady again. You see Charlotte will go out with him and be the
Miss Edmonstone for company, and he is so proud of her liveliness and--
how pretty she is growing--so that will keep him from being vexed. So
now you see I can go on my own way, attend to baby, and take Laura's
business about the school, and keep out of the way of company, so that
it is very nice and comfortable. It is the very thing that Guy
wished!'

Amabel's life is here pretty well shown. That of Philip and Laura may
be guessed at. He was a distinguished man, one of the most honoured
and respected in the country, admired for his talents and excellence,
and regarded universally as highly prosperous and fortunate, the pride
of all who had any connection with him. Yet it was a harassed, anxious
life, with little of repose or relief; and Laura spent her time between
watching him and tending his health, and in the cares and
representation befitting her station, with little space for domestic
pleasure and home comfort, knowing her children more intimately through
her sister's observation than through her own.

Perfect and devoted as ever was their love, and they were thought most
admirable and happy people. There was some wonder at his being a
grave, melancholy man, when he had all before him so richly to enjoy,
contrary to every probability when he began life. Still there was one
who never could understand why others should think him stern and
severe, and why even his own children should look up to him with love
that partook of distant awe and respect, one to whom he never was
otherwise than indulgent, nay, almost reverential, in the gentleness of
his kindness, and that was Mary Verena Morville.

THE END.