Chapter 107
Laura might justly have envied Amabel, though for another reason; it was because in her cup there was no poison of her own infusing.
There she stayed till Charlotte came to summon her to tea, saying the gentlemen, except Charles, were still in the dining-room.
They had remained sitting over the fire for a considerable s.p.a.ce, waiting for each other to begin, Mr. Edmonstone irresolute, Philip striving to master his feelings, and to prevent increasing pain and confusion from making him forget what he intended, to say. At last, Mr.
Edmonstone started up, pulled out his keys, took a candle, and said, 'Come to the study--I'll give you the Redclyffe papers.'
'Thank you,' said Philip, also rising, but only because he could not sit while his uncle stood. 'Not to-night, if you please. I could not attend to them.'
'What, your head? Eh?'
'Partly. Besides, there is another subject on which I hope you will set me at rest before I can enter on any other.'
'Yes--yes--I know,' said Mr. Edmonstone, moving uneasily.
'I am perfectly conscious how deeply I have offended.'
Mr. Edmonstone could not endure the apology.
'Well, well,' he broke in nervously, 'I know all that, and it can't be helped. Say no more about it. Young people will be foolish, and I have been young and in love myself.'
That Captain Morville should live to be thankful for being forgiven in consideration of Mr. Edmonstone's having been young!
'May I then consider myself as pardoned, and as having obtained your sanction?'
'Yes, yes, yes; and I hope it will cheer poor Laura up again a little.
Four years has it gone on? Constancy, indeed! and it is time it should be rewarded. We little thought what you were up to, so grave and demure as you both were. So you won't have the papers to-night? I can't say you do look fit for business. Perhaps Laura may suit you better--eh, Philip?'
Love-making was such a charming sight to Mr. Edmonstone, that having once begun to look on Philip and Laura as a pair of lovers, he could not help being delighted, and forgetting, as well as forgiving, all that had been wrong.
They did not, however, exactly answer his ideas; Laura did not once look up, and Philip, instead of going boldly to take the place next her, sat down, holding his hand to his forehead, as if too much overpowered by indisposition to think of anything else. Such was in great measure the case; he was very much fatigued with the journey, and these different agitating scenes had increased the pain in his head to a violent degree; besides which, feeling that his aunt still regarded him as she did at Recoara, he could not bear to make any demonstration towards Laura before her, lest she might think it a sort of triumphant disregard of her just displeasure.
Poor Laura saw in it both severe suffering and dislike to her; and the more she understood from her father's manner what had pa.s.sed in the other room, the more she honoured him for the sacrifice he was making of himself.
Mrs. Edmonstone waited on the headache with painful attention, but they all felt that the only thing to be done for the two poor things was to let them come to an explanation; so Charlotte was sent to bed, her mother went up to Amy, Charles carried off his father to the study, and they found themselves alone.
Laura held down her face, and struggled to make her palpitating heart and dry tongue suffer her to begin the words to which she had wound herself up. Philip raised his hands from his eyes as the door shut, then rose up, and fixed them on Laura. She, too, looked up, as if to begin; their eyes met, and they understood all. He stepped towards her, and held out his hands. The next moment both hers were clasped in his--he had bent down and kissed her brow.
No words of explanation pa.s.sed between them. Laura knew he was her own, and needed no a.s.surance that her misgivings had been vain. There was a start of extreme joy, such as she had known twice before, but it could be only for a moment while he looked so wretchedly unwell. It did but give her the right
Mrs. Edmonstone compa.s.sionated him, and showed a great deal of solicitude about him, trying hard to regard him as she used to do, yet unable to bring back the feeling, and therefore, do what she would, failing to wear its semblance.
Laura, sad, anxious, and restless, had no relief till she went to wish her sister good night. Amabel, who was already in bed, stretched out her hand with a sweet look, beaming with affection and congratulation.
'You don't want to be convinced now that all is right!' said she.
'His head is so dreadfully bad!' said Laura.
'Ah! it will get better now his mind is at rest.'
'If it will but do so!'
'And you know you must be happy to-morrow, because of baby.'
'My dear,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, coming in, 'I am sorry to prevent your talk, but Amy must not be kept awake. She must keep her strength for to-morrow.'
'Good night, then, dear, dear Laura. I am so glad your trouble is over, and you have him again!' whispered Amabel, with her parting kiss; and Laura went away, better able to hope, to pray, and to rest, than she could have thought possible when she left the drawing-room.
'Poor dear Laura,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, sighing; 'I hope he will soon be better.'
'Has it been very uncomfortable?'
'I can't say much for it, my dear. He was suffering terribly with his head, so that I should have been quite alarmed if he had not said it was apt to get worse in the evening; and she, poor thing, was only watching him. However, it is a comfort to have matters settled; and papa and Charlie are well pleased with him. But I must not keep you awake after driving Laura away. You are not over-tired to-night I hope, my dear?'
'Oh, no; only sleepy. Good night, dearest mamma.'
'Good night, my own Amy;' then, as Amy put back the coverings to show the little face nestled to sleep on her bosom, 'good night, you little darling! don't disturb your mamma. How comfortable you look! Good night, my dearest!'
Mrs. Edmonstone looked for a moment, while trying to check the tears that came at the thought of the night, one brief year ago, when she left Amy sleeping in the light of the Easter moon. Yet the sense of peace and serenity that had then given especial loveliness to the maiden's chamber on that night, was there still with the young widow. It was dim lamplight now that beamed on the portrait of her husband, casting on it the shade of the little wooden cross in front, while she was shaded by the white curtains drawn from her bed round the infant's little cot, so as to shut them both into the quiet twilight, where she lay with an expression of countenance that, though it was not sorrow, made Mrs.
Edmonstone more ready to weep than if it had been; so with her last good night she left her.
And Amabel always liked to be shut in by herself, dearly as she loved them all, and mamma especially; there was always something pleasant in being able to return to her own world, to rest in the thoughts of her husband, and in the possession of the little unconscious creature that had come to inhabit that inner world of hers, the creature that was only his and hers.
She had from the first always felt herself less lonely when quite alone, before with his papers, and now with his child; and could Mrs.
Edmonstone have seen her face, she would have wept and wondered more, as Amy fondled and hushed her babe, whispering to it fond words which she could never have uttered in the presence of any one who could understand them, and which had much of her extreme youthfulness in them. Not one was so often repeated or so endearing as 'Guy's baby! Guy's own dear little girl!' It did not mean half so much when she called it her baby; and she loved to tell the little one that her father had been the best and the dearest, but he was gone away, and would she be contented to be loving and good with only her mother to take care of her, and tell her, as well as she could, what a father hers was, when she was old enough to know about him?
To-night, Amy told her much in that soft, solemn, murmuring tone, about what was to befall her to-morrow, and the great blessings to be given to her, and how the poor little fatherless one would be embraced in the arms of His mercy, and received by her great Father in heaven:--'Ay, and brought nearer to your own papa, and know him in some inner way, and he will know his little child then, for you will be as good and pure and bright as he, and you will belong to the great communion of saints to-morrow, you precious little one, and be so much nearer to him as you will be so much better than I. Oh! baby, if we can but both endure to the end!'
With such half-uttered words, Amabel Morville slept the night before her babe's christening.
CHAPTER 41
A stranger's roof to hold thy head, A stranger's foot thy grave to tread; Desert and rock, and Alp and sea, Spreading between thy home and thee.
--SEWELL
Mary Ross was eager for the first report from Hollywell the next morning, and had some difficulty in keeping her attention fixed on her cla.s.s at school. Laura and Charlotte came in together in due time, and satisfied her so far as to tell her that Amy was very well.
'Is Captain Morville come?' thought Mary. 'No, I cannot guess by Laura's impressive face. Never mind, Charles will tell me all between services.'
The first thing she saw on coming out of school was the pony carriage, with Charles and Captain Morville himself. Charlotte, who was all excitement, had time to say, while her sister was out of hearing,--
'It is all made up now, Mary, and I really am very sorry for Philip.'
It was fortunate that Mary understood the amiable meaning this speech was intended to convey, and she began to enter into its grounds in the short conference after church, when she saw the alteration in the whole expression of countenance.
'Yes,' said Charles, who as usual remained at the vicarage during the two services, and who perceived what pa.s.sed in her mind, 'if it is any satisfaction to you to have a good opinion of your fellow-sponsor, I a.s.sure you that I am converted to Amy's opinion. I do believe the black dog is off his back for good and all.'