The Heir of Redclyffe

She coloured all over, and there was silence. 'What did you answer?' said she, at length.

'I said, whatever happened, you must not be taken by surprise in having to decide quickly. Do you wish to have time to think? I'll go in and leave you to consider, if you like.'

'I only want to know what you wish,' said Amy, not parting with his arm.

'I had rather you did just as suits you best. Of course, you know what my wish must be.'

Amy walked on a little way in silence. 'Very well,' said she, presently, 'I think you and mamma had better settle it. The worst'-- she had tears in her eyes--'the going away--mamma--Charlie--all that will be as bad at one time as at another.' The tears flowed faster. 'It had better be as you all like best.'

'0 Amy! I wonder at myself for daring to ask you to exchange your bright cheerful home for my gloomy old house.'

'No, your home,' said Amy, softly.

'I used to wonder why it was called gloomy; but it will be so no more when you are there. Yet there is a shadow hanging over it, which makes it sometimes seem too strange that you and it should be brought together.'

'I have read somewhere that there is no real gloom but what people raise for themselves.'

'True. Gloom is in sin, not sorrow. Yes, there would be no comfort if I were not sure that if aught of grief or pain should come to you through me, it will not, cannot really hurt you, my Amy.'

'No, unless by my own fault, and you will help me to meet it. Hark! was that a nightingale?'

'Yes, the first! How beautiful! There--don't you see it? Look on that hazel, you may see its throat moving. Well!' when they had listened for a long time,--'after all, that creature and the sea will hardly let one speak of gloom, even in this world, to say nothing of other things.

'The sea! I am glad I have never seen it, because now you will show it to me for the first time.'

'You will never, can never imagine it, Amy! and he sung,--

'With all tones of waters blending, Glorious is the breaking deep, Glorious, beauteous, without ending, Songs of ocean never sleep.'

A silence followed, only broken by the notes of the birds, and presently by the strokes of the great clock. Guy looked at his watch.

'Eleven, Amy! I must go to my reading, or you will have to be very much ashamed of me.'

For, after the first few days, Guy had returned to study regularly every day. He said it was a matter of necessity, not at all of merit, for though he did not mean to try for honours, Amy must not marry a plucked man. His whole career at Oxford had been such a struggle with the disadvantages of his education, that all his diligence had, he thought, hardly raised him to a level with his contemporaries. Moreover, courtship was not the best preparation for the schools, so that though he knew he had done his best, he expected no more than to pass respectably, and told Amy it was very good of her to be contented with a dunce, whereat she laughed merrily. But she knew him too well to try to keep him lingering in the April sunshine, and in they went, Guy to his Greek, and Amy to her mother. Charlotte's lessons had been in abeyance, or turned over to Laura of late, and Mrs. Edmonstone and her dressing-room were always ready for the confidences of the family, who sought her there in turn--all but one, and that the one whose need was the sorest.

Amy and her mother comforted themselves with a good quiet cry, that was not exactly sorrowful, and came to the conclusion that Guy was the most considerate person in the world, and they would do whatever best suited him and papa. So, when Mr. Edmonstone came home, he was rewarded for putting off the letter by finding every one willing to let the marriage take place whenever he pleased. There were various conferences in the dressing-room, and Guy and Amy both had burning faces when they came down to dinner. Laura beheld them with a throbbing heart, while she mechanically talked to Dr. Mayerne, as if nothing was going on. She was glad there was no singing that evening, for she felt incapable of joining; and when at night Charles and his father talked of sitting up to write to Philip, the misery was such that she had no relief till she had shut herself in her room, to bear or to crush the suffering as best she might.

She was still sitting helpless in her wretchedness when Amy knocked at the door, and came in glowing with blushes and smiles, though her eyelashes were dewy with tears.

'Laura, dearest! if you would not be so very unhappy! I wish I knew what to do for you.'

Laura laid her head on her shoulder, and cried. It was a great comfort, little as Amy could understand her trouble. Amy kissed her, soothed her caressingly, cried too, and said, in broken sentences, how often they would be together, and how comfortable it was that Charlie was so much better, and Charlotte quite a companion.

'Then you have fixed the day?' whispered Laura, at last.

'The Tuesday in Whitsun-week,' returned Amy, resting her forehead on Laura's shoulder. 'They all thought it right.'

Laura flung her arms round her, and wept too much to speak.

'Dear, dear Laura!' said Amy, after a time, 'it is very kind of you, but--'

'Oh, Amy! you don't know. You must not think so much better of me than I deserve. It is not only--No, I would not be so selfish, if but--but- -' Never had her self-command so given way.

'Ah! you are unhappy about Philip,' said Amy; and Laura, alarmed lest she might have betrayed him, started, and tried to recover herself; but she saw Amy was quite unsuspicious, and the relief from this fright helped her through what her sister was saying,-- 'Yes, you, who were so fond of him, must be vexed at this unkindness on his part.'

'I am sure it is his real wish for your good,' murmured Laura.

'I dare say!' said Amy, with displeasure. Then changing her tone, 'I beg your pardon, dear Laura, but I don't think I can quite bear to hear any one but Guy defend him.'

'It is very generous.'

'Oh, is not it, Laura? and he says he is so grieved to see us turned against Philip, after being so fond of him; he says it makes him feel as if he had supplanted him, and that he is quite thankful to you for taking his part still.'

'How shall I bear it?' sighed Laura, to herself.

'I wonder whether he will come?' said Amy, thoughtfully.

'He will,' said Laura.

'You think so?' said Amy. 'Well, Guy would be glad. Yes. 0 Laura, if Philip would learn to do Guy justice, I don't think there would be any more to wish!'

'He will in time,' said Laura. 'He is too generous not to be won by such generosity as Guy's; and when all this is forgotten, and all these accusations have been lived down, he will be the warmest of friends.'

'Yes,' said Amy, as if she wished to be convinced; 'but if he would only leave off saying his opinion has never altered, I think I could bring myself to look on him as Guy wants me to do. Good night! dear Laura, and don't be unhappy. Oh! one thing I must tell you; Guy made Charles promise to do all he could not to let it be a hasty letter. Now, good night!'

Poor Laura, she knew not whether gratitude to Guy was not one of her most painful sensations. She wished much to know what had been said in the letter; but only one sentence transpired, and that was, that Mr. Edmonstone had never heard it was necessary to apply to a nephew for consent to a daughter's marriage. It seemed as if it must have been as cutting as Charles could make it; but Laura trusted to Philip's knowledge of the family, and desire for their good, to make him forgive it, and the expectation of seeing him again at the wedding, cheered her. Indeed, a hope of still greater consequences began to rise in her mind, after Charles one day said to her, 'I think you ought to be much obliged to Guy. This morning, he suddenly exclaimed, "I say, Charlie, I wish you would take care Amy's fortune is not settled on her so that it can't be got rid of." I asked how he meant to make ducks and drakes of it; and he explained, that if either of you two did not happen to marry for money, like Amy, it might do you no harm.'