"MY DEAREST,--I never could tell you before how we have grieved for you ever since we knew it. I am so sorry I wrote such dreadful accounts; and Guy says he wants to ask your pardon, if he ever said anything that pained you about Philip. I understand all your unhappiness now, my poor dear; but it will be better now it is known. Don"t be reserved, with Charlie, pray; for if he sees you are unhappy, he will be so very kind.

I have just seen Philip again, and found him rested and better. He is only anxious about you; but I tell him I know you will be glad it is told.

"Your most affectionate sister, "A. F. M."

"Laura" said Charles, finishing the letter, "Amy gives you very good advice, as far as I am concerned. I do want to be of as much use to you as I can--I mean as kind."

"I know--I know; thank you," said Laura, struggling with her tears. "You have been--you are; but--"

"Ay," thought Charles, "I see, she won"t be satisfied, if my kindness includes her alone. What will my honesty let me say to please her? Oh! I know.--You must not expect me to say that Philip has, behaved properly, Laura, nothing but being in love could justify such a delusion; but I do say that there is greatness of mind in his confessing it, especially at a time when he could put it off, and is so unequal to agitation."

It was the absence of any tone of satire that made this speech come home to Laura as it was meant. There was no grudging in the praise, and she answered, in a very low, broken voice,--

"You will think so still more when you see this note, which he sent open, inside mine, to be given to papa when I had told my own story. Oh, his considerateness for me!"

She gave it to him. The address, "C. Edmonstone, Esq.," was a mere scrawl, and within the writing was very trembling and weak. Charles remarked it, and she answered by saying that her own letter began in his own strong hand, but failed and grew shaky at the end, as if from fatigue and agitation. The words were few, brief, and simple, very unlike his usual manner of letter-writing.

"MY DEAR UNCLE,--My conduct has been unjustifiable--I feel it. Do not visit it on Laura--I alone should suffer. I entreat your pardon, and my aunt"s, and leave all to you. I will write more at length. Be kind to her.--Yours affectionately,

"PH. M."

"Poor Philip!" said Charles, really very much touched. From that moment, Laura no longer felt completely isolated, and deprived of sympathy. She sat by Charles till late that night, and told him the whole history of her engagement, much relieved by the outpouring of her long-hidden griefs, and comforted by his kindness, though he could not absolutely refrain from words and gestures of censure. It was as strange that Charles should be the first person to whom Laura told this history, as that Guy should have been Philip"s first confidant.

CHAPTER 35

There is a Rock, and nigh at hand, A shadow in a weary land, Who in that stricken Rock hath rest, Finds water gushing from its breast.

--NEALE

In the meantime the days pa.s.sed at Recoara without much change for the better or worse. After the first week, Guy"s fever had diminished; his pulse was lower, the drowsiness ceased, and it seemed as if there was nothing to prevent absolute recovery. But though each morning seemed to bring improvement, it never lasted; the fever, though not high, could never be entirely reduced, and strength was perceptibly wasting, in spite of every means of keeping it up.

There was not much positive suffering, very little even of headache, and he was cheerful, though speaking little, because he was told not to excite or exhaust himself. Languor and la.s.situde were the chief causes of discomfort; and as his strength failed, there came fits of exhaustion and oppression that tried him severely. At first, these were easily removed by stimulants; but remedies seemed to lose their effect, and the sinking was almost death-like.

"I think I could bear acute pain better!" he said one day; and more than once the sigh broke from him almost unconsciously,--"Oh for one breath of Redclyffe sea-wind!" Indeed, it seemed as if the close air of the shut-in-valley, at the end of a long hot day was almost enough to overwhelm him, weak as he had become. Every morning, when Amabel let in the fresh breeze at the window, she predicted it would be a cool day, and do him good; every afternoon the wind abated, the sun shone full in, the room was stifling, the faintness came on, and after a few vain attempts at relieving it, Guy sighed that there was nothing for it but quiet, and Amy was obliged to acquiesce. As the sun set, the breeze sprung up, it became cooler, he fell asleep, awoke revived, was comfortable all the evening, and Amy left him at eleven or twelve, with hopes of his having a good night.

It seemed to her as if ages had pa.s.sed in this way, when one evening two letters were brought in.

"From mamma!" said she; "and this one," holding it up, "is for you. It must have been hunting us everywhere. How many different directions!"

"From Markham," said Guy. "It must be the letter we were waiting for."

The letter to tell them Redclyffe was ready to receive them! Amabel put it down with a strange sensation, and opened her mother"s. With a start of joy she exclaimed--

"They are coming--mamma and papa!"

"Then all is right!"

"If we do not receive a much better account," read Amy, "we shall set off early on Wednesday, and hope to be with you not long after you receive this letter."

"Oh I am so glad! I wonder how Charlie gets on without her."

"It is a great comfort," said Guy.

"Now you will see what a nurse mamma is!"

"Now you will be properly cared for."

"How nice it will be! She will take care of you all night, and never be tired, and devise everything I am too stupid for, and make you so comfortable!"

"Nay, no one could do that better than you, Amy. But it is joy indeed--to see mamma again--to know you are safe with her. Everything comes to make it easy!" The last words were spoken very low; and she did not disturb him by saying anything till he asked about the rest of the letter, and desired her to read Markham"s to him.

This cost her some pain, for it had been written in ignorance of even Philip"s illness, and detailed triumphantly the preparations at Redclyffe, hinting that they must send timely notice of their return, or they would disappoint the tenantry, who intended grand doings, and concluding with a short lecture on the inexpediency of lingering in foreign parts.

"Poor Markham," said Guy.

She understood; but these things did not come on her like a shock now, for he had been saying them more or less ever since the beginning of his illness; and fully occupied as she was, she never opened her mind to the future. After a long silence, Guy said--

"I am very sorry for him. I have been making Arnaud write to him for me."

"Oh, have you?"

"It was better for you not to do it, Arnaud has written for me at night.

You will send it, Amy, and another to my poor uncle."

"Very well," said she, as he looked at her.

"I have told Markham," said he presently, "to send you my desk. There are all sorts of things in it, just as I threw them in when I cleared out my rooms at Oxford. I had rather n.o.body but you saw some of them.

There is nothing of any importance, so you may look at them when you please, or not at all."

She gazed at him without answering. If there had been any struggle to retain him, it would have been repressed by his calmness; but the thought had not come on her suddenly, it was more like an inevitable fate seen at first at a distance, and gradually advancing upon her. She had never fastened on the hope of his recovery, and it had dwindled in an almost imperceptible manner. She kept watch over him, and followed his thoughts, without stretching her mind to suppose herself living without him; and was supported by the forgetfulness of self, which gave her no time to realize her feelings.

"I should like to have seen Redclyffe bay again," said Guy, after a s.p.a.ce. "Now that mamma is coming, that is the one thing. I suppose I had set my heart on it, for it comes back to me how I reckoned on standing on that rock with you, feeling the wind, hearing the surge, looking at the meeting of earth and sky, and the train of sunlight." He spoke slowly, pausing between each recollection,--"You will see it some day,"

he added. "But I must give it up; it is earth after all, and looking back."

Through the evening, he seemed to be dwelling on thoughts of his own, and only spoke to tell her of some message to friends at Redclyffe, or Hollywell, to mention little Marianne Dixon, or some other charge that he wished to leave. She thought he had mentioned almost every one with whom he had had any interchange of kindness at either of his homes, even to old nurse at Hollywell, remembering them all with quiet pleasure. At half-past eleven, he sent her to bed, and she went submissively, cheered by thinking him likely to sleep.

As soon as she could conscientiously call the night over, she returned to him, and was received with one of the sweet, sunny, happy looks that had always been his peculiar charm, and, of late, had acquired an expression almost startling from their very beauty and radiance. It was hardly to be termed a smile, for there was very little, if any, movement of the lips, it was more like the reflection of some glory upon the whole countenance.

"You have had a good night?" she said.

"I have had my wish, I have seen Redclyffe;" then, seeing her look startled, "Of course, it was a sort of wandering; but I never quite lost the consciousness of being here, and it was very delightful. I saw the waves, each touched with light,--the foam--the sea-birds, floating in shade and light,--the trees--the s.h.a.g--the sky--oh! such a glory as I never knew--themselves--but so intensely glorious!"

"I am glad" said Amabel, with a strange partic.i.p.ation of the delight it had given him.