Amy, after pa.s.sing by Charles, and getting a squeeze from his ever-sympathizing hand, put herself away behind Mary, while Laura talked to every one, hoping to show that there was some self-possession in the family. Guy reappeared, but, after one glance to see if Amy was present, he did not look at her again, but went and leant over the lower end of Charles"s sofa, just as he used to do; and Charles lay gazing at him, and entirely forgetting what he had been trying to say just before to Mrs. Brownlow, professing to have come from London that morning, and making the absent mistakes likely to be attributed to the lovers themselves.

Mr. Edmonstone came, and dinner followed. As Mrs. Edmonstone paired off her company, she considered what to do with her new arrival.

"If you had come two hours ago," said she, within herself, "I would have let you be at home. Now you must be a great man, and be content with me.

It will be better for Amy."

Accordingly Guy was between her and Mrs. Gresham. She did not try to speak to him, and was amused by his fitful attempts at making conversation with Mrs. Gresham, when it struck him that he ought to be taking notice of her. Amy (very fortunately, in her own opinion) was out of sight of him, on the same side of the table, next to Mr. Ross, who, like his daughter, guessed enough about the state of things to let her alone.

Charles was enjoying all manner of delightful conjectures with Charlotte, till the ladies returned to the drawing-room, and then he said as much as he dared to Mary Ross, far more than she had gained from Laura, who, as they came out of the dining-room, had said,--

"Don"t ask me any questions, for I know nothing at all about it."

Amy was talked to by Mrs. Gresham about club-books, and new flowers, to which she was by this time able to attend very well, satisfied that his happiness had returned, and content to wait till the good time for knowing how. She could even be composed when the gentlemen came in, Guy talking to Mr. Ross about Coombe Prior, and then going to Charles; but presently she saw no more, for a request for music was made, and she was obliged to go and play a duet with Laura. She did not dislike this, but there followed a persecution for some singing. Laura would have spared her, but could not; and while she was turning over the book to try to find something that was not impossible to begin, and Laura whispering encouragingly, "This--try this--your part is almost nothing; or can"t you do this?" another hand turned over the leaves, as if perfectly at home in them, and, without speaking, as if it was natural for him to spare Amy, found a song which they had often sung together, where she might join as much or as little as she chose, under cover of his voice.

She had not a thought or sensation beyond the joy of hearing it again, and she stood, motionless, as if in a trance. When it was over, he said to Laura, "I beg your pardon for making such bad work. I am so much out of practice."

Mrs. Brownlow was seen advancing on them; Amy retreated, leaving Guy and Laura to fulfil all that was required of them, which they did with a very good grace, and Laura"s old familiar feeling began to revive, so much that she whispered while he was finding the place, "Don"t you dislike all this excessively?"

"It does as well as anything else, thank you," was the answer. "I can do it better than talking."

At last they were released, and the world was going away. Mary could not help whispering to Mrs. Edmonstone, "How glad you must be to get rid of us!" and, as Mrs. Edmonstone answered with a smile, she ventured further to say,--"How beautifully Amy has behaved!"

Little Amy, as soon as she had heard the last carriage roll off, wished every one good night, shook hands with Guy, holding up the lighted candle between him and her face as a veil, and ran away to her own room.

The others remained in a sort of embarra.s.sed silence, Mr. Edmonstone rubbing his hands; Laura lighted the candles, Charlotte asked after Bustle, and was answered that he was at Oxford, and Charles, laying hold of the side of the sofa, pulled himself by it into a sitting posture.

"Shall I help you?" said Guy.

"Thank you, but I am not ready yet; besides, I am an actual log now, and am carried as such, so it is of no use to wait for me. Mamma shall have the first turn, and I won"t even leave my door open."

"Yes, yes, yes; go and have it out with mamma, next best to Amy herself, as she is run away--eh, Guy?" said Mr. Edmonstone.

Guy and Mrs. Edmonstone had not hitherto trusted themselves to speak to each other, but they looked and smiled; then, wishing the rest good night, they disappeared. Then there was a simultaneous outbreak of "Well?"

"All right!" said Mr. Edmonstone. "Every word was untrue. He is the n.o.blest fellow in the world, as I knew all the time, and I was an old fool for listening to a pack of stories against him."

"Hurrah!" cried Charles, drumming on the back of his sofa. "Let us hear how the truth came out, and what it was."

"It was that Dixon. There has he been helping that man for ever, sending his child to school, giving him sums upon sums, paying his gaming debts with that cheque!"

"Oh, oh!" cried Charles.

"Yes that was it! The child told Markham of it, and Markham brought the father to tell me. It puts me in a rage to think of the monstrous stories Philip has made me believe!"

"I was sure of it!" cried Charles. "I knew it would come out that he had only been so much better than other people that n.o.body could believe it.

Cleared! cleared! Why, Charlotte, Mr. Ready-to-halt will be for footing it cleverly enough!" as she was wildly curvetting round him.

"I was always sure," said Mr. Edmonstone. "I knew it was not in him to go wrong. It was only Philip, who would persuade me black was white."

"I never believed one word of it," said Charles; "still less after I saw Philip"s animosity."

""Les absens ont toujours tort,"" interrupted Laura; then, afraid of saying too much, she added,--"Come, Charlotte, it is very late."

"And I shall be the first to tell Amy!" cried Charlotte. "Good night, papa!--good night, Charlie!"

She rushed up-stairs, afraid of being forestalled. Laura lingered, putting some books away in the ante-room, trying to overcome the weary pain at her heart. She did not know how to be confident. Her father"s judgment was worthless in her eyes, and Philip had predicted that Amy would be sacrificed after all. To see them happy made her sigh at the distance of her own hopes, and worse than all was self-reproach for unkindness in not rejoicing with the rest, in spite of her real affection for Guy himself. When she thought of him, she could not believe him guilty; when she thought of Philip"s belief, she could not suppose him innocent, and she pitied her sister for enjoying a delusive happiness. With effort, however, she went to her room, and, finding her a little overpowered by Charlotte"s tumultuous joy, saw that peace and solitude were best for her till she could have more certain intelligence, and, after very tender good-nights, carried off Charlotte.

It would be hard to describe Mrs. Edmonstone"s emotion, as she preceded Guy to the dressing-room, and sat down, looking up to him as he stood in his old place by the fire. She thought he did not look well, though it might be only that the sun-burnt colour had given place to his natural fairness; his eyes, though bright as ever, did not dance and sparkle; a graver expression sat on his brow; and although he still looked very young, a change there certainly was, which made him man instead of boy--a look of having suffered, and conquered suffering. She felt even more motherly affection for him now than when he last stood there in the full tide of his first outburst of his love for her daughter, and her heart was almost too full for speech; but he seemed to be waiting for her, and at last she said,--"I am very glad to have you here again."

He smiled a little, then said, "May I tell you all about it?"

"Sit down here. I want very much to hear it. I am sure you have gone through a good deal."

I have, indeed," said he, simply and gravely; and there was a silence, while she was certain that, whatever he might have endured, he did not feel it to have been in vain.

"But it is at an end," said she. "I have scarcely seen Mr. Edmonstone, but he tells me he is perfectly satisfied."

"He is so kind as to be satisfied, though you know I still cannot explain about the large sum I asked him for."

"We will trust you," said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling, "but I am very anxious to hear how you came to an understanding."

Guy went over the story in detail, and very much affected she was to hear how entirely unfounded had been the suspicion, and how thankful he was for Mr. Edmonstone"s forgiveness.

"You had rather to forgive us!" said she.

"You forget how ill I behaved," said Guy, colouring. "If you knew the madness of those first moments of provocation, you would think that the penance of a lifetime, instead of only one winter, would scarce have been sufficient."

"You would not say, as Charles does, that the suspicion justified your anger?"

"No, indeed!" He paused, and spoke again. "Thank Heaven, it did not last long; but the insight it gave me into the unsubdued evil about me was a fearful thing."

"But you conquered it. They were the unguarded exclamations of the first shock. Your whole conduct since, especially the interview with Philip, has shown that your anger has not been abiding, and that you have learnt to subdue it."

"It could not abide, for there was no just cause of offence. Of course such a dreadful outburst warned me to be on my guard; and you know the very sight of Philip is a warning that there is danger in that way! I mean," said Guy, becoming conscious that he had been very severe, "I mean that I know of old that I am apt to be worried by his manner, and that ought to make me doubly cautious."

Mrs. Edmonstone was struck by the soberer manner in which he spoke of his faults. He was as ready to take full blame, but without the vehemence which he used to expend in raving at himself instead of at the offender. It seemed as if he had brought himself to the tone he used to desire so earnestly.

"I am very glad to be able to explain all to Philip," he said.

"I will write as soon as possible. Oh, Mrs. Edmonstone! if you knew what it is to be brought back to such unhoped-for happiness, to sit here once more, with you,"--his voice trembled, and the tears were in her eyes,--"to have seen _her_, to have all overlooked, and return to all I hoped last year. I want to look at you all, to believe that it is true,"

he finished, smiling.

"You both behaved very well this evening," said she, laughing, because she could do so better than anything else at that moment.

"You both!" murmured Guy to himself.

"Ah! little Amy has been very good this winter."

He answered her with a beautiful expression of his eyes, was silent a little while, and suddenly exclaimed, in a candid, expostulating tone, "But now, seriously, don"t you think it a very bad thing for her?"

"My dear Guy," said she, scarcely repressing a disposition to laugh, "I told you last summer what I thought of it, and you must settle the rest with Amy to-morrow. I hear the drawing-room bell, which is a sign I must send you to bed. Good night!"