'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 £1000, 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,
