'He? You'll never have any more to say to him, if you don't take care what you are about.'
'I can't help it,' said Amy, in a broken voice. 'It is not right.'
'Nonsense! folly!' said Charles. 'You are as bad as the rest. When they are persecuting, and slandering, and acting in the most outrageous way against him, and you know one word of yours would carry him through all, you won't say it, to save him from distraction, and from doing all my father fancies he has done. Then I believe you don't care a rush for him, and never want to see him again, and believe the whole monstrous farrago. I vow I'll say so.'
'0 Charles, you are very cruel!' said Amy, with an irrepressible burst of weeping.
'Then, if you don't believe it, why can't you send one word to comfort him?'
She wept in silence for some moments; at last she said,--
'It would not comfort him to think me disobedient. He will trust me without, and he will know what you think. You are very kind, dear Charlie; but don't persuade me any more, for I can't bear it. I am going away now; but don't fancy I am angry, only I don't think I can sit by while you write that letter.'
Poor little Amy, she seldom knew worse pain than at that moment, when she was obliged to go away to put it out of her power to follow the promptings of her heart to send the few kind words which might prove that nothing could shake her love and trust.
A fresh trial awaited her when she looked from her own window. She saw Deloraine led out, his chestnut neck glossy in the sun and William prepared for a journey, and the other servants shaking hands, and bidding him good- bye. She saw him ride off, and could hardly help flying back to her brother to exclaim, '0 Charlie, they have sent Deloraine away!' while the longing to send one kind greeting became more earnest than ever; but she withstood it, and throwing herself on the bed, exclaimed,--
'He will never come back--never, never!' and gave way, unrestrainedly, to a fit of weeping; nor was it till this had spent itself that she could collect her thoughts.
She was sitting on the side of her bed trying to compose herself, when Laura, came in.
'My own Amy--my poor, dearest,--I am very sorry!'
'Thank you, dear Laura,' and Amy gladly rested her aching head on her shoulder.
'I wish I knew what to do for you!' proceeded Laura. 'You cannot, cease to think about him, and yet you ought.'
'If I ought, I suppose I can,' said Amy in a voice exhausted with crying.
'That's right, darling. You will not be weak, and pine for one who is not worthy.'
'Not worthy, Laura?' said Amy, withdrawing her arm, and holding up her head.
'Ah! my poor Amy, we thought--'
'Yes; and it is so still. I know it is so. I know he did not do it.'
'Then what do you think of Margaret and Philip?'
'There is some mistake.'
And how can you defend what he said of papa?'
'I don't,' said Amy, hiding her face. 'That is the worst; but I am sure it was only a moment's passion, and that he must be very unhappy about it now. I don't think papa would mind it, at least not long, if it was not for this other dreadful misapprehension. 0, Laura! why cannot something be done to clear it up?'
'Everything will be done,' said Laura. Papa has written to Mr. Wellwood, and Philip means to go and make inquiries at Oxford and St. Mildred's.'
'When?' asked Amy.
'Not till term begins. You know he is to have a fortnight's leave before the regiment goes to Ireland.'
'Oh, I hope it will come right then. People must come to an understanding when they meet; it is so different from writing.'
'He will do everything to set things on a right footing. You may be confident of that, Amy, for your sake as much as anything else.'
'I can't think why he should know I have anything to do with it,' said Amy, blushing. 'I had much rather he did not.'
'Surely, Amy, you think be can be trusted with your secret; and there is no one who can take more care for you. You must look on him as one of ourselves.'
Amy made no answer, and Laura, was annoyed.
'You are vexed with him for having told this to papa; but that is not reasonable of you, Amy; your better sense must tell you that it is the only truly kind course, both towards Guy and yourself.'
It was said in Philip's manner, which perhaps made it harder to bear; and Amy could scarcely answer,--
'He means it for the best.'
'You would not have had him be silent?'
'I don't know,' said Amy, sadly. 'No; he should have done something, but he might have done it more kindly.'
Laura endeavoured to persuade her that nothing could have been more kind and judicious, and Amy sat dejectedly owning the good intention, and soothed by the affection of her family; with the bitter suffering of her heart unallayed, with all her fond tender feelings torn at the thought of what Guy must be enduring, and with the pain of knowing it was her father's work. She had one comfort, in the certainty that Guy would bear it nobly. She was happy to find her confidence confirmed by her mother and Charles; and one thing she thought she need not give up, though she might no longer think of him as her lover, she might be his Verena still, whether he knew it or not. It could not be wrong to remember any one in her prayers, and to ask that he might not be led into temptation, but have strength to abide patiently. That helped her to feel that he was in the hands of One to whom the secrets of all hearts are known; and a line of poetry seemed to be whispered in her ears, in his own sweet tones,--
Wait, and the cloud shall roll away.
So, after the first day, she went on pretty well. She was indeed silent and grave, and no longer the sunbeam of Hollywell; but she took her share in what was passing, and a common observer would hardly have remarked the submissive melancholy of her manner. Her father was very affectionate, and often called her his jewel of good girls; but he was too much afraid of women's tears to talk to her about Guy, he left that to her mother: and Mrs. Edmonstone, having seen her submit to her father's will, was unwilling to say more.
She doubted whether it was judicious to encourage her in dwelling on Guy; for, even supposing his character clear, they had offended him deeply, and released him from any engagement to her, so that there was nothing to prevent him from forming an attachment elsewhere. Mrs. Edmonstone did not think he would; but it was better to say nothing about him, lest she should not speak prudently, and only keep up the subject in Amy's mind.
Charles stormed and wrangled, told Mr. Edmonstone 'he was breaking his daughter's heart, that was all;' and talked of unfairness and injustice, till Mr. Edmonstone vowed it was beyond all bearing, that his own son should call him a tyrant, and accused Guy of destroying all peace in his family.
The replies to the letters came; some thought them satisfactory, and the others wondered that they thought so. Mr. Wellwood gave the highest character of his pupil, and could not imagine how any irregularities could be laid to his charge; but when asked in plain terms how he disposed of his time, could only answer in general, that he had friends and engagements of his own at St. Mildred's and its neighbourhood, and had been several times at Mrs. Henley's and at Colonel Harewood's. The latter place, unfortunately, was the very object of Philip's suspicions; and thus the letter was anything but an exculpation.
Guy wrote to Charles in the fulness of his heart, expressing gratitude for his confidence and sympathy. He again begged for the supposed evidence of his misconduct, declaring he could explain it, whatever it might be, and proceeded to utter deep regrets for his hasty expressions.
'I do not know what I may have said,' he wrote; 'I have no doubt it was unpardonable, for I am sure my feelings were so, and that I deserve whatever I have brought on myself. I can only submit to Mr. Edmonstone's sentence, and trust that time will bring to his knowledge that I am innocent of what I am accused of. He has every right to be displeased with me.
Charles pronounced this to be only Guy's way of abusing himself; but his father saw in it a disguised admission of guilt. It was thought, also, to be bad sign that Guy intended to remain at South Moor till the end of the vacation, though Charles argued that he must be somewhere; and if they wished to keep him out of mischief, why exile him from Hollywell! He would hardly listen to his mother's representation, that on Amy's account it would not be right to have him there till the mystery was cleared up.
