godmother. I wonder how Markham endures it! I believe he is nearly crazy. He wrote me word he should certainly have given up all concern with Redclyffe, but for the especial desire of--.What a state of mind he will be in, when he remembers how he has been abusing the captain to me!'
The afternoon was fresh and clear, and there was a spring brightness in the sunshine that Amabel took as a greeting to her little maiden, as she was carried along the churchyard path. Many an eye was bent on the mother and child, especially on the slight form, unseen since she had last walked down the aisle, her arm linked in her bridegroom's.
'Little Amy Edmonstone,' as they had scarcely learnt to cease from calling her, before she was among them again, the widowed Lady Morville; and with those kind looks of compassion for her, were joined many affectionate mourning thoughts of the young husband and father, lying far away in his foreign grave, and endeared by kindly remembrances to almost all present. There was much of pity for his unconscious infant, and tears were shed at the thought of what the wife must be suffering; but if the face could have been seen beneath the thick crape folds of her veil, it would have shown no tears--only a sweet, calm look of peace, and almost gladness.
The babe was on her knees when the time for the christening came; she was awake, and now and then making a little sound and as she was quieter with her than any one else, Amabel thought she might herself carry her to the font.
It was deep, grave happiness to stand there, with her child in her arms, and with an undefined sense that she was not alone as if in some manner her husband was present with her; praying with her prayers, and joining in offering up their treasure; when the babe was received into Mr. Ross's arms, and Amy, putting back her veil, gazed up with a wistful but serene look.
'To her life's end?' Therewith came a vision of the sunrise at Recoara, and the more glorious dawn that had shone in Guy's dying smile, and Amabel knew what would be her best prayer for his little Mary Verena, as she took her back, the drops glistening on her brow, her eyes open, and arms outspread. It was at that moment that Amabel was first thrilled with a look in her child that was like its father. She had earnestly and often sought a resemblance without being able honestly to own that she perceived any; but now, though she knew not in what it consisted, there was something in that baby face that recalled him more vividly than picture or memory.
'Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.'
Those words seemed to come from her own heart. She had brought Guy's daughter to be baptized, and completed his work of pardon, and she had a yearning to be departing in peace, whither her sunshine was gone. But he had told her not to wish that his child should be motherless; she had to train her to be fit to meet him. The sunshine was past, but she had plenty to do in the shade, and it was for his sake. She would, therefore, be content to remain to fulfil her duties among the dear ones to whom he had trusted her for comfort, and with the sense of renewed communion with him that she had found in returning again to church.
So felt Amabel, as she entered into the calm that followed the one year in which she had passed through the great events of life, and known the chief joy and deepest grief that she could ever experience.
It was far otherwise with her sister. Laura's term of trouble seemed to be ending, and the spring of life beginning to dawn on her.
Doubt and fear were past, she and Philip were secure of each other, he was pardoned, and they could be together without apprehension, or playing tricks with their consciences; but she had as yet scarcely been able to spend any time with him; and as Charles said, their ways were far more grave and less lover-like than would have seemed natural after their long separation.
In truth, romantic and uncalculating as their attachment was, they never had been lover-like. They had never had any fears or doubts; her surrender of her soul had been total, and every thought, feeling, and judgment had taken its colour from him as entirely as if she had been a wife of many years' standing. She never opened her mind to perceive that he had led her to act wrongly, and all her unhappiness had been from anxiety for him, not repentance on her own account; for so complete was her idolatry, that she entirely overlooked her failure in duty to her parents.
It took her by surprise when, as they set out together that evening to walk home from East-hill, he said, as soon as they were apart from the village--
'Laura, you have more to forgive than all.'
'Don't, speak so, Philip, pray don't. Do you think I would not have borne far more unhappiness willingly for your sake? Is it not all forgotten as if it had not been?'
'It is not unhappiness I meant,' he replied, 'though I cannot bear to think of what you have undergone. Unhappiness enough have I caused indeed. But I meant, that you have to forgive the advantage I took of your reliance on me to lead you into error, when you were too young to know what it amounted to.'
'It was not an engagement,' faltered Laura.
'Laura, don't, for mercy's sake, recall my own hateful sophistries,' exclaimed Philip, as if unable to control the pain it gave him; 'I have had enough of that from my sister;' then softening instantly: 'it was self-deceit; a deception first of myself, then of you. You had not experience enough to know whither I was leading you, till I had involved you; and when the sight of death showed me the fallacy of the salve to my conscience, I had nothing for it but to confess, and leave you to bear the consequences. 0 Laura! when I think of my conduct towards you, it seems even worse than that towards--towards your brother-in-law!'
His low, stern tone of bitter suffering and self-reproach was something new and frightful to Laura. She clung to his arm and tried to say--'0, don't speak in that way! You know you meant the best. You could not help being mistaken.'
'If I did know any such thing, Laura! but the misery of perceiving that my imagined anxiety for his good,--his good, indeed! was but a cloak for my personal enmity--you can little guess it.'
Laura tried to say that appearances were against Guy, but he would not hear.
'If they were, I triumphed in them. I see now that a shade of honest desire to see him exculpated would have enabled me to find the clue. If I had gone to St. Mildred's at once--interrogated him as a friend-- seen Wellwood-- but dwelling on the ifs of the last two years can bring nothing but distraction,' he added, pausing suddenly.
'And remember,' said Laura, 'that dear Guy himself was always grateful to you. He always upheld that you acted for his good. Oh! the way he took it was the one comfort I had last year.'
'The acutest sting, and yet the only balm,' murmured Philip; 'see, Laura,' and he opened the first leaf of Guy's prayer-book, which he had been using at the christening.
A whispered 'Dear Guy!' was the best answer she could make, and the tears were in her eyes. 'He was so very kind to me, when he saw me that unhappy wedding-day.'
'Did Amy tell you his last words to me?'
'No,' said Laura.
'God bless you and my sister!' he repeated, so low that she could hardly hear.
'Amy left that for you to tell,' said Laura, as her tears streamed fast. How can we speak of her, Philip?'
'Only as an angel of pardon and peace!' he answered.
'I don't know how to tell you of all her kindness,' said Laura; 'half the bitterness of it seemed to be over when once she was in the house again, and, all the winter, going into her room was like going into some peaceful place where one must find comfort.'
''Spirits of peace, where are ye' I could have said, when I saw her drive away at Recoara, and carry all good angels with her except those that could not but hover round that grave.'
'How very sad it must have been! Did--'
'Don't speak of it; don't ask me of it' said Philip, hastily. 'There is nothing in my mind but a tumult of horror and darkness that it is madness to remember. Tell me of yourself--tell me that you have not been hurt by all that I have brought on you.'
'Oh, no!' said Laura 'besides, that is all at an end.'
'All an end! Laura, I fear in joining your fate to mine, you will find care and grief by no means at an end. You must be content to marry a saddened, remorseful man, broken down in health and spirits, his whole life embittered by that fatal remembrance, forced to endure an inheritance that seems to have come like the prosperity of the wicked. Yet you are ready to take all this? Then, Laura, that precious, most precious love, that has endured through all, will be the one drop of comfort through the rest of my life.
She could but hear such words with thrills of rejoicing affection; and on they walked, Laura trembling and struck with sorrow at the depth of repentance he now and then disclosed, though not in the least able to fathom it,
