Unapt to stir at these indignities;

But you have found me.

--KING HENRY IV

 

Philip, according to promise, appeared at Hollywell, and a volume of awful justice seemed written on his brow. Charles, though ignorant of its cause, perceived this at a glance, and greeted him thus:--

 

'Enter Don Philip II, the Duke of Alva, alguazils, corregidors, and executioners.'

 

'Is anything the matter, Philip?' said Amy; a question which took him by surprise, as he could not believe her in ignorance. He was sorry for her, and answered gravely,--

 

'Nothing is amiss with me, thank you, Amy,'

 

She knew he meant that he would tell no more, and would have thought no more about it, but that she saw her mother was very uneasy.

 

'Did you ask whether there were any letters at the post?' said Charles. 'Guy is using us shamefully--practising self-denial on us, I suppose. Is there no letter from him?'

 

'There is,' said Philip, reluctantly.

 

'Well, where is it?'

 

'It is to your father.'

 

'Oh!' said Charles, with a disappointed air. 'Are you sure? Depend on it, you overlooked my M. He has owed me a letter this fortnight. Let me see.'

 

'It is for my uncle,' repeated Philip, as if to put an end to the subject.

 

'Then he has been so stupid as to forget my second name. Come, give it me. I shall have it sooner or later.'

 

'I assure you, Charles, it is not for you.'

 

'Would not any one suppose he had been reading it?' exclaimed Charles.

 

'Did you know Mary Ross was gone to stay with her brother John?' broke in Mrs. Edmonstone, in a nervous, hurried manner.

 

'No is she?' replied Philip.

 

'Yes; his wife is ill.'

 

The universal feeling was that something was amiss, and mamma was in the secret. Amy looked wistfully at her, but Mrs. Edmonstone only gazed at the window, and so they continued for some minutes, while an uninteresting exchange of question and answer was kept up between her and her nephew until at length the dressing-bell rang, and cleared the room. Mrs. Edmonstone lingered till her son and daughters were gone, and said,--

 

'You have heard from St. Mildred's?'

 

'Yes,' said Philip, as if he was as little inclined to be communicative to her as to his cousins.

 

'From Guy, or from Margaret?'

 

'From Margaret.'

 

'But you say there is a letter from him?'

 

'Yes, for my uncle.'

 

'Does she say nothing more satisfactory?' asked his aunt, her anxiety tortured by his composure. 'Has she learnt no more?'

 

'Nothing more of his proceedings. I see Amy knows nothing of the matter?'

 

'No; her papa thought there was no need to distress her till we had seen whether he could explain.'

 

'Poor little thing!' said Philip; 'I am very sorry for her.

 

Mrs. Edmonstone did not choose to discuss her daughter's affairs with him, and she turned the conversation to ask if Margaret said much of Guy.

 

'She writes to tell the spirit in which he received my uncle's letter. It is only the Morville temper, again, and, of course, whatever you may think of that on Amy's account, I should never regard it, as concerns myself, as other than his misfortune. I hope he may be able to explain the rest.'

 

'Ah! there comes your uncle!' and Mr. Edmonstone entered.

 

'How d'ye do, Philip? Brought better news, eh?'

 

'Here is a letter to speak for itself.'

 

'Eh? From Guy? Give it me. What does he say? Let me see. Here, mamma, read it; your eyes are best.'

 

Mrs. Edmonstone read as follows:--

 

 

'MY DEAR MR. EDMONSTONE,--Your letter surprised and grieved me very much. I cannot guess what proofs Philip may think he has, of what I never did, and, therefore, I cannot refute them otherwise than by declaring that I never gamed in my life. Tell me what they are, and I will answer them. As to a full confession, I could of course tell you of much in which I have done wrongly, though not in the way which he supposes. On that head, I have nothing to confess. I am sorry I am prevented from satisfying you about the L1OOO, but I am bound in honour not to mention the purpose for which I wanted it. I am sure you could never believe I could have said what I did to Mrs. Edmonstone if I had begun on a course which I detest from the bottom of my heart. Thank you very much for the kindness of the latter part of your letter. I do not know how I could have borne it, if it had ended as it began. I hope you will soon send me these proofs of Philip's. Ever your affectionate, 'G. M.'

 

 

Not a little surprised was Philip to find that he was known to be Guy's accuser; but the conclusion revealed that his style had betrayed him, and that Mr. Edmonstone had finished with some mention of him, and he resolved that henceforth he would never leave a letter of his own dictation till he had seen it signed and sealed.

 

'Well!' cried Mr. Edmonstone, joyfully beating his own hand with his glove, 'that is all right. I knew it would be so. He can't even guess what we are at. I am glad we did not tease poor little Amy. Eh, mamma?--eh, Philip?' the last eh being uttered much more doubtfully, and less triumphantly than the first.

 

'I wonder you think it right,' said Philip.

 

'What more would you have?' said Mr. Edmonstone, hastily.

 

'Confidence.'

 

'Eh? Oh, ay, he says he can't tell--bound in honour.'

 

'It is easy to write off-hand, and say I cannot satisfy you, I am bound in honour; but that is not what most persons would think a full justification, especially considering the terms on which you stand.'

 

'Why, yes, he might have said more. It would have been safe enough with me.'

 

'It is his usual course of mystery, reserve, and defiance.'

 

'The fact is,' said Mr. Edmonstone, turning away, 'that it is a very proper letter; right sense, proper feeling--and if he never gamed in his life, what would you have more?'

 

'There are different ways of understanding such a denial as this,' said Philip. 'See, he says not in the way in which I suppose.' He held up his hand authoritatively, as his aunt was about to interpose. 'It was against gaming that his vow was made. I never thought he had played, but he never says he has not betted.'

 

'He would never be guilty of a subterfuge!' exclaimed Mr. Edmonstone, indignantly.

 

'I should not have thought so, without the evidence of the payment of the cheque, my uncle had just given him, to this gambling fellow,' said Philip; 'yet it is only the natural consequence of the habit of eluding inquiry into his visits to London.'

 

'I can't see any reason for so harsh an accusation,' said she.

 

'I should hardly want more reason than his own words. He refuses to answer the question on which my uncle's good opinion depends; he owns he has been to blame, and thus retracts his full denial. In my opinion, his letter says nothing so plainly as, "While I can stand fair with you I do not wish to break with you."'

 

'He will not find that quite so easy.' cried Mr. Edmonstone. 'I am no fool to be hoodwinked, especially where my little Amy is concerned. I'll see all plain and straight before he says another word of her. But you see what comes of their settling it while I was out of the way.'

 

Mrs. Edmonstone was grieved to see him so hurt at this. It could not have been helped, and if all had been smooth, he never would have thought of it again; but it served to keep up his dignity in his own eyes, and, as he fancied, to defend him from Philip's censure, and he therefore made the most of it, which so pained her that she did not venture to continue her championship of Guy.

 

'Well, well,' said Mr. Edmonstone, 'the question is what to do next--eh, Philip?' I wish he would have spoken openly. I hate mysteries. I'll write and tell him this won't do; he must be explicit--eh, Philip?'

 

'We will talk it over by and by,' said Philip.

 

His aunt understood that it was to be in her absence, and left the room, fearing it would be impossible to prevent Amy from being distressed, though she had no doubt that Guy would be able to prove his innocence of the charges. She found Amy waiting for her in her room.

 

'Don't, ring, mamma, dear. I'll fasten your dress,' said she; then pausing--'Oh! mamma, I don't know whether I ought to ask, but if you would only tell me if there is nothing gone wrong.'

 

'I don't believe there is anything really wrong, my dear,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, kissing her, as she saw how her colour first deepened and then faded.

 

'Oh! no,' said she.

 

'But there is some mystery about his money-matters, which has vexed your papa.'

 

'And what has Philip to do with it?'

 

'I cannot quite tell, my dear. I believe Margaret Henley has heard something, but I do not know the whole.'

 

'Did you see his letter, mamma? said Amy, in a low, trembling voice.

 

'Yes, it is just like himself, and absolutely denies the accusations.'

 

Amy did not say 'then they are false,' but she held up her head.

 

'Then papa is satisfied?' she said.

 

'I have no doubt all will be made clear in time,' said her mother; 'but there is still something unexplained, and I am afraid things may not go smoothly just now. I am very sorry, my little Amy, that such a cloud should have come over you, she added, smoothing fondly the long, soft hair, sad at heart to see the cares and griefs of womanhood gathering over her child's bright, young life.

 

'I said I must learn to bear things!' murmured Amy to herself. 'Only,' and the tears filled her eyes, and she spoke with almost childish simplicity of manner, 'I can't bear them to vex him. I wish Philip would let papa settle it alone. Guy will be angry, and grieved afterwards.'

 

They were interrupted by the dinner-bell, but Amy ran into her own room for one moment.

 

'I said I would learn to bear,' said she to herself, 'or I shall never be fit for him. Yes, I will, even though it is the thinking he is unhappy. He said I must be his Verena; I know what that means; I ought not to be uneasy, for he will bear it beautifully, and say he is glad of it afterwards. And I will try not to seem cross to Philip.'

 

Mr. Edmonstone was fidgety and ill at ease, found fault with the dinner, and was pettish with his wife. Mrs. Edmonstone set Philip off upon politics, which lasted till the ladies could escape into the drawing-room. In another minute Philip brought in Charles, set him down, and departed. Amy, who was standing by the window, resting her forehead against the glass, and gazing into the darkness, turned round hastily, and left the room, but in passing her brother, she put her hand into his, and received a kind pressure. Her mother followed her, and the other three all began to wonder. Charles said he had regularly been turned out of the dining-room by Philip, who announced that he wanted to speak to his uncle, and carried him off.

 

They conjectured, and were indignant at each other's conjectures, till their mother returned, and gave them as much information as she could; but this only made them very anxious. Charles was certain that Mrs. Henley had laid a cockatrice egg, and Philip was hatching it; and Laura could not trust herself to defend Philip, lest she should do it too vehemently. They could all agree in desire to know the truth, in hope that Guy was not culpable, and, above all, in feeling for Amy; but by tacit consent they were silent on the three shades of opinion in their minds. Laura was confident that Philip was acting for the best; Mrs. Edmonstone thought he might be mistaken in his premises, but desirous of Guy's real good; and Charles, though sure he would allege nothing which he did not believe to be true, also thought him ready to draw the worst conclusions from small grounds, and to take pleasure in driving Mr. Edmonstone to the most rigorous measures.

 

Philip, meanwhile, was trying to practise great moderation and forbearance, not bringing forward at first what was most likely to incense Mr. Edmonstone, and without appearance of animosity in his cool, guarded speech. There was no design in this, he meant only to be just; yet anything less cool would have had far less effect.

 

When he shut the dining-room door, he found his uncle wavering, touched by the sight of his little Amy, returning to his first favourable view of Guy's letter, ready to overlook everything, accept the justification, and receive his ward on the same footing as before, though he was at the same time ashamed that Philip should see him relent, and desirous of keeping up his character for firmness, little guessing how his nephew felt his power over him, and knew that he could wield him at will.

 

Perceiving and pitying his feebleness, and sincerely believing strong measures the only rescue for Amy, the only hope for Guy, Philip found himself obliged to work on him by the production of another letter from his sister. He would rather, if possible, have kept this back, so much did his honourable feeling recoil from what had the air of slander and mischief-making; but he regarded firmness on his uncle's part as the only chance for Guy or for his cousin, and was resolved not to let him swerve from strict justice.

 

Mrs. Henley had written immediately after Guy's outburst in her house, and, taking it for granted that her brother would receive a challenge, she wrote in the utmost alarm, urging him to remember how precious he was to her, and not to depart from his own principles.

 

'You would not be so mad as to fight him, eh?' said Mr. Edmonstone, anxiously. 'You know better--besides, for poor Amy's sake.'

 

'For the sake of right,' replied Philip, 'no. I have reassured my sister. I have told her that, let the boy do what he will, he shall never make me guilty of his death.'

 

'You have heard from him, then?'

 

'No; I suppose a night's reflection convinced him that he had no rational grounds for violent proceedings, and he had sense enough not to expose himself to such an answer as I should have given. What caused his wrath to be directed towards me especially, I cannot tell, nor can my sister,' said Philip, looking full at his uncle; 'but I seem to have come in for a full share of it.'

 

He proceeded to read the description of Guy's passion, and the expressions he had used. Violent as it had been, it did not lose in Mrs. Henley's colouring; and what made the effect worse was that she had omitted to say she had overheard his language, so that it appeared as if he had been unrestrained even by gentlemanly feeling, and had thus spoken of her brother and uncle in her presence.

 

Mr. Edmonstone was resentful now, really displeased, and wounded to the quick. The point on which he was especially sensitive was his reputation for sense and judgment; and that Guy, who had shown him so much respect and affection, whom he had treated with invariable kindness, and received into his family like a son, that he should thus speak of him shocked him extremely. He was too much overcome even to break out into exclamations at first, he only drank off his glass of wine hastily, and said, 'I would never have thought it!'

 

With these words, all desire for forbearance and toleration departed. If Guy could speak thus of him, he was ready to believe any accusation, to think him deceitful from the first, to say he had been trifling with Amy, to imagine him a confirmed reprobate, and cast him off entirely. Philip had some difficulty to restrain him from being too violent; and to keep him to the matter in hand, he defended Guy from the exaggerations of his imagination in a manner which appeared highly noble, considering how Guy had spoken of him. Before they parted that night, another letter had been written, which stood thus,--

 

    'DEAR SIR GUY,--Since you refuse the confidence which I have a right to demand, since you elude the explanation I asked, and indulge yourself in speaking in disrespectful terms of me and my family, I have every reason to suppose that you have no desire to continue on the same footing as heretofore at Hollywell. As your guardian, I repeat that I consider myself bound to keep a vigilant watch over your conduct, and, if possible, to recover you from the unhappy course in which you have involved yourself: but all other intercourse between you and this family must cease. 'Your horse shall be sent to Redclyffe to-morrow.

 

 

    'Yours faithfully,

    'C. EDMONSTONE.'

 

 

This letter was more harsh than Philip wished; but Mr. Edmonstone would hardly be prevailed on to consent to enter on no further reproaches. He insisted on banishing Deloraine, as well as on the mention of Guy's disrespect, both against his nephew's opinion; but it was necessary to let him have his own way on these points, and Philip thought himself fortunate in getting a letter written which was in any degree rational and moderate.

 

They had been so busy, and Mr. Edmonstone so excited, that Philip thought it best to accept the offer of tea being sent them in the dining-room, and it was not till nearly midnight that their conference broke up, when Mr. Edmonstone found his wife sitting up by the dressing-room fire, having shut Charles's door, sorely against his will.

 

'There,' began Mr. Edmonstone, 'you may tell Amy she may give him up, and a lucky escape she has had. But this is what comes of settling matters in my absence.' So he proceeded with the narration, mixing the facts undistinguishably with his own surmises, and overwhelming his wife with dismay. If a quarter of this was true, defence of Guy was out of the question; and it was still more impossible to wish Amy's attachment to him to continue; and though much was incredible, it was no time to say so. She could only hope morning would soften her husband's anger, and make matters explicable.

 

Morning failed to bring her comfort. Mr. Edmonstone repeated that Amy must be ordered to give up all thoughts of Guy, and she perceived that the words ascribed to him stood on evidence which could not be doubted. She could believe he might have spoken them in the first shock of an unjust imputation, and she thought he might have been drawn into some scrape to serve a friend; but she could never suppose him capable of all Mr. Edmonstone imagined.

 

The first attempt to plead his cause, however, brought on her an angry reply; for Philip, by a hint, that she never saw a fault in Guy, had put it into his uncle's head that she would try to lead him, and made him particularly inaccessible to her influence.

 

There was no help for it, then; poor little Amy must hear the worst; and it was not long before Mrs. Edmonstone found her waiting in the dressing-room. Between obedience to her husband, her conviction of Guy's innocence, and her tenderness to her daughter, Mrs. Edmonstone had a hard task, and she could scarcely check her tears as Amy nestled up for her morning kiss.

 

'O mamma! what is it?'

 

'Dearest, I told you a cloud was coming. Try to bear it. Your papa is not satisfied with Guy's answer, and it seems he spoke some hasty words of papa and Philip; they have displeased papa very much, and, my dear child, you must try to bear it, he has written to tell Guy he must not think any more of you.'

 

'He has spoken hasty words of papa!' repeated Amy, as if she had not heard the rest. 'How sorry he must be!'

 

As she spoke, Charles's door was pushed open, and in he came, half dressed, scrambling on, with but one crutch, to the chair near which she stood, with drooping head and clasped hands.

 

'Never mind, little Amy, he said; 'I'll lay my life 'tis only some monstrous figment of Mrs. Henley's. Trust my word, it will right itself; it is only a rock to keep true love from running too smooth. Come, don't cry, as her............