not yet attempt to use his crutches, so that all his designs vanished, except that of persuading his father to go to London to meet Guy and Markham there, and transact the business consequent on his ward's attaining his majority. He trusted much to Guy's personal influence, and said to his father, 'You know no one has seen him yet but Philip, and he would tell things to you that he might not to him.'
It was an argument that delighted Mr. Edmonstone.
'Of course I have more weight and experience, and--and poor Guy is very fond of us. Eh, Charlie?'
So Charles wrote to make an appointment for Guy to meet his guardian and Markham in London on Easter Tuesday. 'If you will clear up the gambling story,' he wrote, 'all may yet be well.'
Guy sighed as he laid aside the letter. 'All in vain, kind Charlie,' said he to himself, 'vain as are my attempts to keep my poor uncle from sinking himself further! Is it fair, though,' continued he, with vehemence, 'that the happiness of at least one life should be sacrificed to hide one step in the ruin of a man who will not let himself be saved? Is it not a waste of self-devotion? Have I any right to sacrifice hers? Ought I not rather'--and a flash of joy came over him--'to make my uncle give me back my promise of concealment? I can make it up to him. It cannot injure him, since only the Edmonstones will know it! But'--and he pressed his lips firmly together--'is this the spirit I have been struggling for this whole winter? Did I not see that patient waiting and yielding is fit penance for my violence. It would be ungenerous. I will wait and bear, contented that Heaven knows my innocence at least in this. For her, when at my best I dreaded that my love might bring sorrow on her--how much more now, when I have seen my doom face to face, and when the first step towards her would be what I cannot openly and absolutely declare to be right? That would be the very means of bringing the suffering on her, and I should deserve it.'
Guy quitted these thoughts to write to Markham to make the appointment, finishing his letter with a request that Markham would stop at St. Mildred's on his way to London, and pay Miss Wellwood, the lady with whom his uncle's daughter was placed, for her quarter's board. 'I hope this will not be a very troublesome request,' wrote Guy; 'but I know you had rather I did it in this way, than disobey your maxims, as to not sending money by the post.'
The time before the day of meeting was spent in strengthening himself against the pain it would be to refuse his confidence to Mr. Edmonstone, and thus to throw away the last chance of reconciliation, and of Amy. This would be the bitterest pang of all--to see them ready to receive him, and he forced to reject their kindness.
So passed the preceding week, and with it his twenty-first birthday, spent very differently from the way in which it would ordinarily be passed by a youth in his position. It went by in hard study and sad musings, in bracing himself to a resolution that would cost him all he held dear, and, as the only means of so bracing himself, in trying to fix his gaze more steadily beyond the earth.
Easter day steadied the gaze once more for him, and as the past week had nerved him in the spirit of self- sacrifice, the feast day brought him true unchanging joy, shining out of sadness, and enlightening the path that would lead him to keep his resolution to the utmost, and endure the want of earthly hope.
CHAPTER 25
Already in thy spirit thus divine,
Whatever weal or woe betide,
Be that high sense of duty still thy guide,
And all good powers will aid a soul like thine.--SOUTHEY
'Now for it!' thought Guy, as he dismissed his cab, and was shown up- stairs in the hotel. 'Give me the strength to withstand!'
The door was opened, and he beheld Mr. Edmonstone, Markham, and another--it surely was Sebastian Dixon! All sprung up to receive him; and Mr. Edmonstone, seizing him by both hands, exclaimed--
'Here he is himself! Guy, my boy, my dear boy, you are the most generous fellow in the world! You have been used abominably. I wish my two hands had been cut off before I was persuaded to write that letter, but it is all right now. Forget and forgive--eh, Guy? You'll come home with me, and we will write this very day for Deloraine.'
Guy was almost giddy with surprise. He held one of Mr. Edmonstone's hands, and pressed it hard; his other hand he passed over his eyes, as if in a dream. 'All right?' he repeated.
'All right!' said Mr. Edmonstone. 'I know where your money went, and I honour you for it, and there stands the man who told me the whole story. I said, from the first, it was a confounded slander. It was all owing to the little girl.'
Guy turned his face in amazement towards his uncle, who was only waiting to explain. 'Never till this morning had I the least suspicion that I had been the means of bringing you under any imputation. How could you keep me in ignorance?'
'You have told--'
'Of the cheque,' broke in Mr. Edmonstone, 'and of all the rest, and of your providing for the little girl. How could you do it with that pittance of an allowance of yours? And Master Philip saying you never had any money! No wonder, indeed!'
'If I had known you were pinching yourself,' said Dixon, 'my mind would have revolted--'
'Let me understand it,' said Guy, grasping the back of a chair. 'Tell me, Markham. Is it really so? Am I cleared? Has Mr. Edmonstone a right to be satisfied?'
'Yes, Sir Guy,' was Markham's direct answer. 'Mr. Dixon has accounted for your disposal of the thirty pound cheque, and there is an end of the matter.'
Guy drew a long breath, and the convulsive grasp of his fingers relaxed.
'I cannot thank you enough!' said he to his uncle; then to Mr. Edmonstone, 'how is Charles?'
'Better--much better, you shall see him to-morrow--eh, Guy?'
'But I cannot explain about the one thousand pounds.'
'Never mind--you never had it, so you can't have misspent it. That's neither here nor there.'
'And you forgive my language respecting you?'
'Nonsense about that! If you never said anything worse than that Philip was a meddling coxcomb, you haven't much to repent of; and I am sure I was ten old fools when I let him bore me into writing that letter.'
'No, no; you did right under your belief; and circumstances were strong against me. And is it clear? Are we where we were before?'
'We are--we are in everything, only we know better what you are worth, Guy. Shake hands once more. There's an end of all misunderstanding and vexation, and we shall be all right at home again!'
The shake was a mighty one. Guy shaded his face for a moment or two, and then said--
'It is too much. I don't understand it. How did you know this matter wanted explanation?' said he, turning to his uncle.
'I learnt it from Mr. Markham, and you will do me the justice to believe, that I was greatly shocked to find that your generosity--'
'The truth of the matter is this,' said Markham. 'You sent me to Miss Wellwood's, at St. Mildred's. The principal was not within, and while waiting for her to make the payment, I got into conversation with her sister, Miss Jane. She told me that the child, Mr. Dixon's daughter, was always talking of your kindness, especially of a morning at St. Mildred's, when you helped him in some difficulty. I thought this threw some light on the matter, found out Mr. Dixon this morning, and you see the result.'
'I do, indeed,' said Guy; 'I wish I could attempt to thank you all.'
'Thanks enough for me to see you look like yourself,' said Markham. 'Did you think I was going to sit still and leave you in the mess you had got yourself into, with your irregularity about keeping your accounts?'
'And to you,' said Guy, looking at his uncle, as if it was especially pleasant to be obliged to him. 'You never can guess what I owe to you!'
'Nay, I deserve no thanks at all,' said Sebastian, 'since I was the means of bringing the imputation on you; and I am sure it is enough for a wretch like me, not to have brought only misery wherever I turn--to have done something to repair the evil I have caused. Oh, could I but bring back your father to what he was when first I saw him as you are now!'
He was getting into one of those violent fits of self-reproach, at once genuine and theatrical, of which Guy had a sort of horror, and it was well Mr. Edmonstone broke in, like comedy into tragedy.
'Come, what's past can't be helped, and I have no end of work to be done, so there's speechifying enough for
