Heir of Redclyffe — 07 - Chapter 5, Part 2
‘Oh!
He does not,’ cried Laura; ‘he only looks on it as we have always done, as a sort of romantic appendage to Redclyffe.
I should think better of a place for being haunted.
’ ‘I used to be proud of it,’ said Guy.
‘I wanted to make out whether it was old Sir Hugh or the murderer of Becket, who was said to groan and turn the lock of Dark Hugh’s chamber.
I hunted among old papers, and a horrible story I found.
That wretched Sir Hugh,--the same who began the quarrel with your mother’s family--he was a courtier of Charles II, as bad or worse than any of that crew--’ ‘What was the quarrel about?
’ said Laura.
‘He was believed to have either falsified or destroyed his father’s will, so as to leave his brother, your ancestor, landless; his brother remonstrated, and he turned him out of doors.
The forgery never was proved, but there was little doubt of it.
There are traditions of his crimes without number, especially his furious anger and malice.
He compelled a poor lady to marry him, though she was in love with another man; then he was jealous; he waylaid his rival, shut him up in the turret chamber, committed him to prison, and bribed Judge Jeffries to sentence him--nay it is even said he carried his wife to see the execution!
He was so execrated that he fled the country; he went to Holland, curried favour with William of Orange, brought his wealth to help him, and that is the deserving action which got him the baronetcy!
He served in the army a good many years, and came home when he thought his sins would be forgotten.
But do you remember those lines?
’ and Guy repeated them in the low rigid tone, almost of horror, in which he had been telling the story:-- ‘On some his vigorous judgments light, In that dread pause ‘twixt day and night, Life’s closing twilight hour;
Round some, ere yet they meet their doom, Is shed the silence of the tomb, The eternal shadows lower.
’ ‘It was so with him; he lost his senses, and after many actions of mad violence, he ended by hanging himself in the very room where he had imprisoned his victim.
’ ‘Horrible!
’ said Laura.
‘Yet I do not see why, when it is all past, you should feel it so deeply.
’ ‘How should I not feel it?
’ answered Guy.
‘Is it not written that the sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children?
You wonder to see me so foolish about Sintram.
Well, it is my firm belief that such a curse of sin and death as was on Sintram rests on the descendants of that miserable man.
’ The girls were silent, struck with awe and dismay at the fearful reality with which he pronounced the words.
At last, Amy whispered, ‘But Sintram conquered his doom.
’ At the same time Laura gathered her thoughts together, and said, ‘This must be an imagination.
You have dwelt on it and fostered it till you believe it, but such notions should be driven away or they will work their own fulfilment.
’ ‘Look at the history of the Morvilles, and see if it be an imagination,’ said Guy.
‘Crime and bloodshed have been the portion of each--each has added weight and darkness to the doom which he had handed on.
My own poor father, with his early death, was, perhaps, the happiest!
’ Laura saw the idea was too deeply rooted to be treated as a fancy, and she found a better argument.
‘The doom of sin and death is on us all, but you should remember that if you are a Morville, you are also a Christian.
’ ‘He does remember it!
’ said Amy, raising her eyes to his face, and then casting them down, blushing at having understood his countenance, where, in the midst of the gloomy shades, there rested for an instant the gleam which her mother had likened to the expression of Raffaelle’s cherub.
’ They walked on for some time in silence.
At last Laura exclaimed, ‘Are you really like the portrait of this unfortunate Sir Hugh?
’ Guy made a sign of assent.
‘Oh!
It must have been taken before he grew wicked,’ said Amy; and Laura felt the same conviction, that treacherous revenge could never have existed beneath so open a countenance, with so much of highmindedness, pure faith and contempt of wrong in every glance of the eagle eye, in the frank expansion of the smooth forehead.
They were interrupted by Mr. Edmonstone’s hearty voice, bawling across the garden for one of the men.
‘O Guy!
are you there?
’ cried he, as soon as he saw him.
‘Just what I wanted!
Your gun, man!
We are going to ferret a rabbit.
’ Guy ran off at full speed in search of his gun, whistling to Bustle.
Mr. Edmonstone found his man, and the sisters were again alone.
‘Poor fellow!
’ said Laura.
‘You will not tell all this to Philip?
’ said Amy.
‘It would show why he was hurt, and it can be no secret.
’ ‘I dare say you are right, but I have a feeling against it.
Well, I am glad he had not seen the ghost!
’ The two girls had taken their walk, and were just going in, when, looking round, they saw Philip walking fast and determinedly up the approach, and as they turned back to meet him, the first thing he said was, ‘Where is Guy?
’ ‘Ferreting rabbits with papa.
What is the matter?
’ ‘And where is my aunt?
’ Driving out with Charles and Charlotte.
What is the matter?
’ ‘Look here.
Can you tell me the meaning of this which I found on my table when I came in this morning?
’ It was a card of Sir Guy Morville, on the back of which was written in pencil, ‘Dear P. , I find hunting and reading don’t agree, so take no further steps about the horse.
Many thanks for your trouble.
--G.
M.
’ ‘There,’ said Philip, ‘is the result of brooding all night on his resentment.
’ ‘Oh no!
’ cried Laura, colouring with eagerness, ‘you do not understand him.
He could not bear it last night, because, as he has been explaining to us, that old Sir Hugh’s story was more shocking than we ever guessed, and he has a fancy that their misfortunes are a family fate, and he could not bear to hear it spoken of lightly.
’ ‘Oh!
He has been telling you his own story, has he?
’ Laura’s colour grew still deeper, ‘If you had been there,’ she said, ‘you would have been convinced.
Why will you not believe that he finds hunting interfere with reading?
’ ‘He should have thought of that before,’ said Philip.
‘Here have I half bought the horse!
I have wasted the whole morning on it, and now I have to leave it on the man’s hands.
I had a dozen times rather take it myself, if I could afford it.
Such a bargain as I had made, and such an animal as you will not see twice in your life.
’ ‘It is a great pity,’ said Laura.
‘He should have known his own mind.
I
don’t like people to give trouble for nothing.
’ ‘Crazy about it last night, and giving it up this morning!
A most extraordinary proceeding.
No, no, Laura, this is not simple fickleness, it would be too absurd.
It is temper, temper, which makes a man punish himself, in hopes of punishing others.
Laura still spoke for Guy, and Amy rejoiced; for if her sister had not taken up the defence of the absent, she must, and she felt too strongly to be willing to speak.
It seemed too absurd for one feeling himself under such a doom to wrangle about a horse, yet she was somewhat amused by the conviction that if Guy had really wished to annoy Philip he had certainly succeeded.
There was no coming to an agreement.
Laura’s sense of justice revolted at the notion of Guy’s being guilty of petty spite; while Philip, firm in his preconceived idea of his character, and his own knowledge of mankind, was persuaded that he had imputed the true motive, and was displeased at Laura’s attempting to argue the point.
He could not wait to see any one else, as he was engaged to dine out, and he set off again at his quick, resolute pace.
‘He is very unfair!
’ exclaimed Amy.
‘He did not mean to be so,’ said Laura; ‘and though he is mistaken in imputing such motives, Guy’s conduct has certainly been vexatious.
’ They were just turning to go in, when they were interrupted by the return of the carriage; and before Charles had been helped up the steps, their father and Guy came in sight.
While Guy went to shut up Bustle, who was too wet for the drawing-room, Mr. Edmonstone came up to the others, kicking away the pebbles before him, and fidgeting with his gloves, as he always did when vexed.
‘Here’s a pretty go!
’ said he.
‘Here is Guy telling me he won’t hunt any more!
’ ‘Not hunt!
’ cried Mrs. Edmonstone and Charles at once; ‘and why?
’ ‘Oh!
something about its taking his mind from his reading; but that can’t be it--impossible, you know; I’d give ten pounds to know what has vexed him.
So keen as he was about it last night, and I vow, one of the best riders in the whole field.
Giving up that horse, too--I declare it is a perfect sin!
I told him he had gone too far, and he said he had left a note with Philip this morning.
’ ‘Yes,’ said Laura; Philip has just been here about it.
Guy left a card, saying, hunting and reading would not agree.
’ ‘That is an excuse, depend upon it,’ said Mr. Edmonstone.
‘Something has nettled him, I am sure.
It could not be that Gordon, could it, with his hail-fellow-well-met manner?
I thought Guy did not half like it the other day, when he rode up with his “Hollo, Morville!
” The Morvilles have a touch of pride of their own; eh, mamma?
’ ‘I should be inclined to believe his own account of himself,’ said she.
‘I tell you, ‘tis utterly against reason,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, angrily.
‘If he was a fellow like Philip, or James Ross, I could believe it; but he--he make a book-worm!
He hates it, like poison, at the bottom of his heart, I’ll answer for it; and the worst of it is, the fellow putting forward such a fair reason one can’t--being his guardian, and all--say what one thinks of it oneself.
Eh, mamma?
’ ‘Not exactly,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling.
‘Well, you take him in hand, mamma.
I dare say he will tell you the rights of it, and if it is only that Gordon, explain it rightly to him, show him ‘tis only the man’s way; tell him he treats me so for ever, and would the Lord-Lieutenant if he was in it.
’ ‘For a’ that and a’ that,’ said Charles, as Amy led him into the drawing-room.
‘You are sure the reading is the only reason?
’ said Amy.
’ ‘He’s quite absurd enough for it,’ said Charles; but ‘absurd’ was pronounced in a way that made its meaning far from annoying even to Guy’s little champion.
Guy came in the next moment, and running lightly up-stairs after Mrs. Edmonstone, found her opening the dressing-room door, and asked if he might come in.
‘By all means,’ she said; ‘I am quite ready for one of our twilight talks.
’ ‘I am afraid I have vexed Mr. Edmonstone,’ began Guy; ‘and I am very sorry.
’ ‘He was only afraid that something might have occurred to vex you, which you might not like to mention to him,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, hesitating a little.
‘Me!
What could I have done to make him think so?
I am angry with no one but myself.
The fact is only this, the hunting is too pleasant; it fills up my head all day and all night; and I don’t attend rightly to anything else.
If I am out in the morning and try to pay for it at night, it will not do; I can but just keep awake and that’s all; the Greek letters all seem to be hunting each other, the simplest things grow difficult, and at last all I can think of, is how near the minute hand of my watch is near to the hour I have set myself.
So, for the last fortnight, every construing with Mr. Lascelles has been worse than the last; and as to my Latin verses, they were beyond everything shocking, so you see there is no making the two things agree, and the hunting must wait till I grow steadier, if I ever do.
Heigho!
It is a great bore to be so stupid, for I thought--But it is of no use to talk of it!
’ ‘Mr. Edmonstone would be a very unreasonable guardian, indeed, to be displeased,’ said his friend, smiling.
You say you stopped the purchase of the horse.
Why so?
Could you not keep him till you are more sure of yourself?
’ ‘Do you think I might?
’ joyously exclaimed Guy.
‘I’ll write to Philip this minute by the post.
Such a splendid creature: it would do you good to see it--such action--such a neck--such spirit.
It would be a shame not to secure it.
But no--no--’ and he checked himself sorrowfully.
‘I have made my mind before that I don’t deserve it.
If it was here, it would always have to be tried: if I heard the hounds I don’t know I should keep from riding after them; whereas, now I can’t, for William won’t let me take Deloraine.
No, I can’t trust myself to keep such a horse, and not hunt.
It will serve me right to see Mr. Brownlow on it, and he will never miss such a chance!
’ and the depth of his sigh bore witness to the struggle it cost him.
‘I should not like to use anyone as you use yourself,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, looking at him with affectionate anxiety, which seemed suddenly to change the current of his thought, for he exclaimed abruptly--‘Mrs. Edmonstone, can you tell me anything about my mother?
’ ‘I am afraid not,’ said she, kindly; ‘you know we had so little intercourse with your family, that I heard little but the bare facts.
’ ‘I don’t think,’ said Guy, leaning on the chimneypiece, ‘that I ever thought much about her till I knew you, but lately I have fancied a great deal about what might have been if she had but lived.
’ It was not Mrs. Edmonstone’s way to say half what she felt, and she went on--‘Poor thing!
I believe she was quite a child.
’ ‘Only seventeen when she died,’ said Guy.
Mrs. Edmonstone went to a drawer, took out two or three bundles of old letters, and after searching in them by the fire-light, said--‘Ah!
here’s a little about her; it is in a letter from my sister-in-law, Philip’s mother, when they were staying at Stylehurst.
’ ‘Who?
My father and mother?
’ cried Guy eagerly.
‘Did you not know they had been there three or four days?
’ ‘No--I know less about them than anybody,’ said he, sadly: but as Mrs. Edmonstone waited, doubtful as to whether she might be about to make disclosures for which he was unprepared, he added, hastily--‘I do know the main facts of the story; I was told them last autumn;’ and an expression denoting the remembrance of great suffering came over his face; then, pausing a moment, he said--‘I knew Archdeacon Morville had been very kind.
’ ‘He was always interested about your father,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘and happening to meet him in London some little time after his marriage, he--he was pleased with the manner in which he was behaving then, thought--thought--’ And here, recollecting that she must not speak ill of old Sir Guy, nor palliate his son’s conduct, poor Mrs. Edmonstone got into an inextricable confusion--all the worse because the fierce twisting of a penwiper in Guy’s fingers denoted that he was suffering a great trial of patience.
She avoided the difficulty thus: ‘It is hard to speak of such things when there is so much to be regretted on both sides; but the fact was, my brother thought your father was harshly dealt with at that time.
Of course he had done very wrong; but he had been so much neglected and left to himself, that it seemed hardly fair to visit his offence on him as severely as if he had had more advantages.
So it ended in their coming to spend a day or two at Stylehurst; and this is the letter my sister-in-law wrote at the time: ‘“Our visitors have just left us, and on the whole I am much better pleased than I expected.
The little Mrs. Morville is a very pretty creature, and as engaging as long flaxen curls, apple-blossom complexion, blue eyes, and the sweetest of voices can make her; so full of childish glee and playfulness, that no one would stop to think whether she was lady-like any more than you would with a child.
She used to go singing like a bird about the house as soon as the first strangeness wore off, which was after her first game of play with Fanny and Little Philip.
She made them very fond of her, as indeed she would make every one who spent a day or two in the same house with her.
I
could almost defy Sir Guy not to be reconciled after one sight of her sweet sunny face.
She is all affection and gentleness, and with tolerable training anything might be made of her; but she is so young in mind and manners, that one cannot even think of blaming her for her elopement, for she had no mother, no education but in music; and her brother seems to have forced it on, thrown her in Mr. Morville’s way, and worked on his excitable temperament, until he hurried them into marriage.
Poor little girl, I suppose she little guesses what she has done; but it was very pleasant to see how devotedly attached he seemed to her; and there was something beautiful in the softening of his impetuous tones when he said, ‘Marianne;’ and her pride in him was very pretty, like a child playing at matronly airs.
”’ Guy gave a long, heavy sigh, brushed away a tear, and after a long silence, said, ‘Is that all?
’ ‘All that I like to read to you.
Indeed, there is no more about her;
and it would be of no use to read all the reports that were going about.
--Ah!
here,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, looking into another letter, ‘she speaks of your father as a very fine young man, with most generous impulses,’--but here again she was obliged to stop, for the next sentence spoke of ‘a noble character ruined by mismanagement.
’ ‘She never saw them again,’ continued Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘Mr. Dixon, your mother’s brother, had great influence with your father, and made matters worse--so much worse, that my brother did not feel himself justified in having any more to do with them.
’ ‘Ah!
he went to America,’ said Guy; ‘I don’t know any more about him except that he came to the funeral and stood with his arms folded, not choosing to shake hands with my poor grandfather.
’ After another silence he said, ‘Will you read that again?
’ and when he had heard it, he sat shading his brow with his hand, as if to bring the fair, girlish picture fully before his mind, while Mrs. Edmonstone sought in vain among her letters for one which did not speak of the fiery passions ignited on either side, in terms too strong to be fit for his ears.
When next he spoke it was to repeat that he had not been informed of the history of his parents till within the last few months.
He had, of course, known the manner of their death, but had only lately become aware of the circumstances attending it.
The truth was that Guy had grown up peculiarly shielded from evil, but ignorant of the cause of the almost morbid solicitude with which he was regarded by his grandfather.
He was a very happy, joyous boy, leading an active, enterprising life, though so lonely as to occasion greater dreaminess and thoughtfulness than usual at such an early age.
He was devotedly attached to his grandfather, looking on him as the first and best of human beings, and silencing the belief that Sir Hugh Morville had entailed a doom of crime and sorrow on the family, by a reference to him, as one who had been always good and prosperous.
When, however, Guy had reached an age at which he must encounter the influences which had proved so baneful to others of his family, his grandfather thought it time to give him the warning of his own history.
The sins, which the repentance of years had made more odious in the eyes of the old man, were narrated; the idleness and insubordination at first, then the reckless pursuit of pleasure, the craving for excitement, the defiance of rule and authority, till folly had become vice, and vice had led to crime.
He had fought no fewer than three duels, and only one had been bloodless.
His misery after the first had well-nigh led to a reform;
but time had dulled its acuteness--it had been lost in fresh scenes of excitement--and at the next offence rage had swept away such recollections.
Indeed, so far had he lost the natural generosity of his character, that his remorse had been comparatively slight for the last, which was the worst of all, since he had forced the quarrel on his victim, Captain Wellwood, whose death had left a wife and children almost destitute.
His first awakening to a sense of what his course had been, was when he beheld his only child, in the prime of youth, carried lifeless across his threshold, and attributed his death to his own intemperance and violence.
That hour made Sir Guy Morville an old and a broken-hearted man; and he repented as vigorously as he had sinned.
From the moment he dared to hope that his son’s orphan would be spared, he had been devoted to him, but still mournfully, envying and pitying his innocence as something that could not last.
He saw bright blossoms put forth, as the boy grew older; but they were not yet fruits, and he did not dare to believe they ever would be.
The strength of will which had, in his own case, been the slave of his passions, had been turned inward to subdue the passions themselves, but this was only the beginning--the trial was not yet come.
He could hope his grandson might repent, but this was the best that he dared to think possible.
He could not believe that a Morville could pass unscathed through the world, or that his sins would not be visited on the head of his only descendant; and the tone of his narration was throughout such as might almost have made the foreboding cause its own accomplishment.
The effect was beyond what he had expected; for a soul deeply dyed in guilt, even though loathing its own stains, had not the power of conceiving how foul was the aspect of vice, to one hitherto guarded from its contemplation, and living in a world of pure, lofty day-dreams.
The boy sat the whole time without a word, his face bent down and hidden by his clasped hands, only now and then unable to repress a start or shudder at some fresh disclosure; and when it was ended, he stood up, gazed round, and walked uncertainly, as if he did not know where he was.
His next impulse was to throw himself on his knee beside his grandfather, and caress him as he used to when a child.
The ‘good-night’ was spoken, and Guy was shut into his room, with his overwhelming emotions.
His grandfather a blood-stained, remorseful man!
The doom was complete, himself heir to the curse of Sir Hugh, and fated to run the same career;
and as he knew full well, with the tendency to the family character strong within him, the germs of these hateful passions ready to take root downwards and bear fruit upwards, with the very countenance of Sir Hugh, and the same darkening, kindling eyes, of which traditions had preserved the remembrance.
He was crushed for awhile.
The consciousness of strength not his own, of the still small voice that could subdue the fire, the earthquake, and the whirlwind, was slow in coming to him; and when it came, he, like his grandfather, had hope rather of final repentance than of keeping himself unstained.
His mind had not recovered the shock when his grandfather died,--died in faith and fear, with good hope of accepted repentance, but unable to convey the assurance of such hope to his grandson.
Grief for the only parent he had ever known, and the sensation of being completely alone in the world, were joined to a vague impression of horror at the suddenness of the stroke, and it was long before the influence of Hollywell, or the elasticity of his own youthfulness, could rouse him from his depression.
Even then it was almost against his will that he returned to enjoyment, unable to avoid being amused, but feeling as if joy was not meant for him, and as if those around were walking ‘in a world of light,’ where he could scarcely hope to tread a few uncertain steps.
In this despondency was Guy’s chief danger, as it was likely to make him deem a struggle with temptation fruitless, while his high spirits and powers of keen enjoyment increased the peril of recklessness in the reaction.
It was Mrs. Edmonstone who first spoke with him cheerfully of a successful conflict with evil, and made him perceive that his temptations were but such as is common to man.
She had given him a clue to discover when and how to trust himself to enjoy; the story of Sintram had stirred him deeply, and this very day, Amy’s words, seemingly unheeded and unheard, had brought home to him the hope and encouragement of that marvellous tale.
They had helped him in standing, looking steadfastly upwards, and treading down not merely evil, but the first token of coming evil, regardless of the bruises he might inflict on himself.
Well for him if he was constant.
Such was Guy’s inner life; his outward life, frank and joyous, has been shown, and the two flowed on like a stream, pure as crystal, but into which the eye cannot penetrate from its depth.
The surface would be sometimes obscured by cloud or shade, and reveal the sombre wells beneath; but more often the sunshine would penetrate the inmost recesses, and make them glance and sparkle, showing themselves as clear and limpid as the surface itself.
CHAPTER 6
