Heir of Redclyffe — 23 - Chapter 17, Part 2

This was more than Charles meant, but his temper was fairly roused, and he said much more than was right or judicious, so that his advocacy only injured the cause.

He had many representations to make on the injustice of condemning Guy unheard, of not even laying before him the proofs on which the charges were founded, and on the danger of actually driving him into mischief, by shutting the doors of Hollywell against him.

‘If you wanted to make him all you say he is, you are taking the very best means.

’ Quite true; but Charles had made his father too angry to pay attention.

This stormy discussion continued for nearly two hours, with no effect save inflaming the minds of all parties.

At last Mr. Edmonstone was called away; and Charles, rising, declared he should go at that moment, and write to tell Guy that there was one person at least still in his senses.

‘You will do as you please,’ said Philip.

‘Thank you for the permission,’ said Charles, proudly.

‘It is not to me that your submission is due,’ said Philip.

‘I’ll tell you what, Philip, I submit to my own father readily, but I do not submit to Captain Morville’s instrument.

’ ‘We have had enough of unbecoming retorts for one day,’ said Philip, quietly, and offering his arm.

Much as Charles disliked it, he was in too great haste not to accept it;

and perceiving that there were visitors in the drawing-room, he desired to go up-stairs.

‘People who always come when they are not wanted!

’ he muttered, as he went up, pettish with them as with everything else.

‘I do not think you in a fit mood to be advised, Charles,’ said Philip;

‘but to free my own conscience, let me say this.

Take care how you promote this unfortunate attachment.

’ ‘Take care what you say!

’ exclaimed Charles, flushing with anger, as he threw himself forward, with an impatient movement, trusting to his crutch rather than retain his cousin’s arm; but the crutch slipped, he missed his grasp at the balusters, and would have fallen to the bottom of the flight if Philip had not been close behind.

Stretching out his foot, he made a barrier, receiving Charles’s weight against his breast, and then, taking him in his arms, carried him up the rest of the way as easily as if he had been a child.

The noise brought Amy out of the dressing-room, much frightened, though she did not speak till Charles was deposited on the sofa, and assured them he was not in the least hurt, but he would hardly thank his cousin for having so dexterously saved him; and Philip, relieved from the fear of his being injured, viewed the adventure as a mere ebullition of ill-temper, and went away.

‘A fine helpless log am I,’ exclaimed Charles, as he found himself alone with Amy.

‘A pretty thing for me to talk of being of any use, when I can’t so much as show my anger at an impertinence about my own sister, without being beholden for not breaking my neck to the very piece of presumption that uttered it.

’ ‘Oh, don’t speak so’ began Amy; and at that moment Philip was close to them, set down the crutch that had been dropped, and went without speaking.

‘I don’t care who hears,’ said Charles; ‘I say there is no greater misery in this world than to have the spirit of a man and the limbs of a cripple.

I know if I was good for anything, things would not long be in this state.

I should be at St. Mildred’s by this time, at the bottom of the whole story, and Philip would be taught to eat his words in no time, and make as few wry faces as suited his dignity.

But what is the use of talking?

This sofa’--and he struck his fist against it--‘is my prison, and I am a miserable cripple, and it is mere madness in me to think of being attended to.

’ ‘O Charlie!

’ cried Amy, caressingly, and much distressed, ‘don’t talk so.

Indeed, I can’t bear it!

You know it is not so.

’ ‘Do I?

Have not I been talking myself hoarse, showing up their injustice, saying all a man could say to bring them to reason, and not an inch could I move them.

I do believe Philip has driven my father stark mad with these abominable stories of his sister’s, which I verily believe she invented herself.

’ ‘O no, she could not.

Don’t say so.

’ ‘What!

Are you going to believe them, too?

’ ‘Never!

’ ‘It is that which drives me beyond all patience,’ proceeded Charles, ‘to see Philip lay hold of my father, and twist him about as he chooses, and set every one down with his authority.

’ ‘Philip soon goes abroad,’ said Amy, who could not at the moment say anything more charitable.

‘Ay!

there is the hope.

My father will return to his natural state provided they don’t drive Guy, in the meantime, to do something desperate.

’ ‘No, they won’t,’ whispered Amy.

‘Well, give me the blotting-book.

I’ll write to him this moment, and tell him we are not all the tools of Philip’s malice.

’ Amy gave the materials to her brother, and then turning away, busied herself in silence as best she might, in the employment her mother had recommended her, of sorting some garden-seeds for the cottagers.

After an interval, Charles said, ‘Well, Amy, what shall I say to him for you?

’ There was a little silence, and presently Amy whispered, ‘I don’t think I ought.

’ ‘What?

’ asked Charles, not catching her very low tones, as she sat behind him, with her head bent down.

‘I don’t think it would be right,’ she repeated, more steadily.

‘Not right for you to say you don’t think him a villain?

’ ‘Papa said I was to have no--‘and there her voice was stopped with tears.

‘This is absurd, Amy,’ said Charles; ‘when it all was approved at first, and now my father is acting on a wrong impression; what harm can there be in it?

Every one would do so.

’ ‘I am sure he would not think it right,’ faltered Amy.

‘He?

You’ll never have any more to say to him, if you don’t take care what you are about.

’ ‘I can’t help it,’ said Amy, in a broken voice.

‘It is not right.

’ ‘Nonsense!

folly!

’ said Charles.

‘You are as bad as the rest.

When they are persecuting, and slandering, and acting in the most outrageous way against him, and you know one word of yours would carry him through all, you won’t say it, to save him from distraction, and from doing all my father fancies he has done.

Then I believe you don’t care a rush for him, and never want to see him again, and believe the whole monstrous farrago.

I vow I’ll say so.

’ ‘O Charles, you are very cruel!

’ said Amy, with an irrepressible burst of weeping.

‘Then, if you don’t believe it, why can’t you send one word to comfort him?

’ She wept in silence for some moments; at last she said,-- ‘It would not comfort him to think me disobedient.

He will trust me without, and he will know what you think.

You are very kind, dear Charlie; but don’t persuade me any more, for I can’t bear it.

I am going away now; but don’t fancy I am angry, only I don’t think I can sit by while you write that letter.

’ Poor little Amy, she seldom knew worse pain than at that moment, when she was obliged to go away to put it out of her power to follow the promptings of her heart to send the few kind words which might prove that nothing could shake her love and trust.

A fresh trial awaited her when she looked from her own window.

She saw Deloraine led out, his chestnut neck glossy in the sun and William prepared for a journey, and the other servants shaking hands, and bidding him good-bye.

She saw him ride off, and could hardly help flying back to her brother to exclaim, ‘O Charlie, they have sent Deloraine away!

’ while the longing to send one kind greeting became more earnest than ever; but she withstood it, and throwing herself on the bed, exclaimed,-- ‘He will never come back--never, never!

’ and gave way, unrestrainedly, to a fit of weeping; nor was it till this had spent itself that she could collect her thoughts.

She was sitting on the side of her bed trying to compose herself, when Laura, came in.

‘My own Amy--my poor, dearest,--I am very sorry!

’ ‘Thank you, dear Laura,’ and Amy gladly rested her aching head on her shoulder.

‘I wish I knew what to do for you!

’ proceeded Laura.

‘You cannot, cease to think about him, and yet you ought.

’ ‘If I ought, I suppose I can,’ said Amy in a voice exhausted with crying.

‘That’s right, darling.

You will not be weak, and pine for one who is not worthy.

’ ‘Not worthy, Laura?

’ said Amy, withdrawing her arm, and holding up her head.

‘Ah!

my poor Amy, we thought--’ ‘Yes; and it is so still.

I know it is so.

I know he did not do it.

’ ‘Then what do you think of Margaret and Philip?

’ ‘There is some mistake.

’ And how can you defend what he said of papa?

’ ‘I don’t,’ said Amy, hiding her face.

‘That is the worst; but I am sure it was only a moment’s passion, and that he must be very unhappy about it now.

I don’t think papa would mind it, at least not long, if it was not for this other dreadful misapprehension.

O, Laura!

why cannot something be done to clear it up?

’ ‘Everything will be done,’ said Laura.

Papa has written to Mr. Wellwood, and Philip means to go and make inquiries at Oxford and St. Mildred’s. ’ ‘When?

’ asked Amy.

‘Not till term begins.

You know he is to have a fortnight’s leave before the regiment goes to Ireland.

’ ‘Oh, I hope it will come right then.

People must come to an understanding when they meet; it is so different from writing.

’ ‘He will do everything to set things on a right footing.

You may be confident of that, Amy, for your sake as much as anything else.

’ ‘I can’t think why he should know I have anything to do with it,’ said Amy, blushing.

‘I had much rather he did not.

’ ‘Surely, Amy, you think he can be trusted with your secret; and there is no one who can take more care for you.

You must look on him as one of ourselves.

’ Amy made no answer, and Laura, was annoyed.

‘You are vexed with him for having told this to papa; but that is not reasonable of you, Amy; your better sense must tell you that it is the only truly kind course, both towards Guy and yourself.

’ It was said in Philip’s manner, which perhaps made it harder to bear;

and Amy could scarcely answer,-- ‘He means it for the best.

’ ‘You would not have had him be silent?

’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Amy, sadly.

‘No; he should have done something, but he might have done it more kindly.

’ Laura endeavoured to persuade her that nothing could have been more kind and judicious, and Amy sat dejectedly owning the good intention, and soothed by the affection of her family; with the bitter suffering of her heart unallayed, with all her fond tender feelings torn at the thought of what Guy must be enduring, and with the pain of knowing it was her father’s work.

She had one comfort, in the certainty that Guy would bear it nobly.

She was happy to find her confidence confirmed by her mother and Charles; and one thing she thought she need not give up, though she might no longer think of him as her lover, she might be his Verena still, whether he knew it or not.

It could not be wrong to remember any one in her prayers, and to ask that he might not be led into temptation, but have strength to abide patiently.

That helped her to feel that he was in the hands of One to whom the secrets of all hearts are known; and a line of poetry seemed to be whispered in her ears, in his own sweet tones,-- Wait, and the cloud shall roll away.

So, after the first day, she went on pretty well.

She was indeed silent and grave, and no longer the sunbeam of Hollywell; but she took her share in what was passing, and a common observer would hardly have remarked the submissive melancholy of her manner.

Her father was very affectionate, and often called her his jewel of good girls; but he was too much afraid of women’s tears to talk to her about Guy, he left that to her mother: and Mrs. Edmonstone, having seen her submit to her father’s will, was unwilling to say more.

She doubted whether it was judicious to encourage her in dwelling on Guy; for, even supposing his character clear, they had offended him deeply, and released him from any engagement to her, so that there was nothing to prevent him from forming an attachment elsewhere.

Mrs. Edmonstone did not think he would; but it was better to say nothing about him, lest she should not speak prudently, and only keep up the subject in Amy’s mind.

Charles stormed and wrangled, told Mr. Edmonstone ‘he was breaking his daughter’s heart, that was all;’ and talked of unfairness and injustice, till Mr. Edmonstone vowed it was beyond all bearing, that his own son should call him a tyrant, and accused Guy of destroying all peace in his family.

The replies to the letters came; some thought them satisfactory, and the others wondered that they thought so.

Mr. Wellwood gave the highest character of his pupil, and could not imagine how any irregularities could be laid to his charge; but when asked in plain terms how he disposed of his time, could only answer in general, that he had friends and engagements of his own at St. Mildred’s and its neighbourhood, and had been several times at Mrs. Henley’s and at Colonel Harewood’s. The latter place, unfortunately, was the very object of Philip’s suspicions;

and thus the letter was anything but an exculpation.

Guy wrote to Charles in the fulness of his heart, expressing gratitude for his confidence and sympathy.

He again begged for the supposed evidence of his misconduct, declaring he could explain it, whatever it might be, and proceeded to utter deep regrets for his hasty expressions.

‘I do not know what I may have said,’ he wrote; ‘I have no doubt it was unpardonable, for I am sure my feelings were so, and that I deserve whatever I have brought on myself.

I can only submit to Mr. Edmonstone’s sentence, and trust that time will bring to his knowledge that I am innocent of what I am accused of.

He has every right to be displeased with me.

Charles pronounced this to be only Guy’s way of abusing himself; but his father saw in it a disguised admission of guilt.

It was thought, also, to be bad sign that Guy intended to remain at South Moor till the end of the vacation, though Charles argued that he must be somewhere; and if they wished to keep him out of mischief, why exile him from Hollywell!

He would hardly listen to his mother’s representation, that on Amy’s account it would not be right to have him there till the mystery was cleared up.

He tried to stir his father up to go and see Guy at St. Mildred’s, and investigate matters for himself; but, though Mr. Edmonstone would have liked the appearance of being important, this failed, because Philip declared it to be unadvisable, knowing that it would be no investigation at all, and that his uncle would be talked over directly.

Next, Charles would have persuaded Philip himself to go, but the arrangements about his leave did not make this convenient; and it was put off till he should pay his farewell visit to his sister, in October.

Lastly, Charles wrote to Mrs. Henley, entreating her to give him some information about this mysterious evidence which was wanting, but her reply was a complete ‘set down’ for interference in a matter with which he had no concern.

He was very angry.

In fact, the post seldom came in without occasioning a fresh dispute, which only had the effect of keeping up the heat of Mr. Edmonstone’s displeasure, and making the whole house uncomfortable.

Fretfulness and ill-humour seemed to have taken possession of Charles and his father.

Such a state of things had not prevailed since Guy’s arrival: Hollywell was hardly like the same house; Mrs. Edmonstone and Laura could do nothing without being grumbled at or scolded by one or other of the gentlemen; even Amy now and then came in for a little petulance on her father’s part, and Charles could not always forgive her for saying in her mournful, submissive tome,--‘It is of no use to talk about it!

’