The Heir of Redclyffe. Charlotte M. Yonge
‘Redclyffe temper,’ said he, coolly, with a half-smile curling his short upper lip.
‘What have you been doing to him?’ said Charles.’
‘Nothing. At least nothing worthy of such ire. I only entered on the subject of his Oxford life, and advised him to prepare for it, for his education has as yet been a mere farce. He used to go two or three days in the week to one Potts, a self-educated genius—a sort of superior writing-master at the Moorworth commercial school. Of course, though it is no fault of his, poor fellow, he is hardly up to the fifth form, and he must make the most of his time, if he is not to be plucked. I set all this before him as gently as I could, for I knew with whom I had to deal, yet you see how it is.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Charles.
‘He said nothing; so far I give him credit; but he strode on furiously for the last half mile, and this explosion is the finale. I am very sorry for him, poor boy; I beg no further notice may be taken of it. Don’t you want an arm, Charlie?’
‘No thank you,’ answered Charles, with a little surliness.
‘You had better. It really is too much for Amy,’ said Philip, making a move as if to take possession of him, as he arrived at the foot of the stairs.
‘Like the camellia, I suppose,’ he replied; and taking his other crutch from Charlotte, he began determinedly to ascend without assistance, resolved to keep Philip a prisoner below him as long as he could, and enjoying the notion of chafing him by the delay. Certainly teasing Philip was a dear delight to Charles, though it was all on trust, as, if he succeeded, his cousin never betrayed his annoyance by look or sign.
About a quarter of an hour after, there was a knock at the dressing-room door. ‘Come in,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, looking up from her letter-writing, and Guy made his appearance, looking very downcast.
‘I am come,’ he said, ‘to ask pardon for the disturbance I made just now. I was so foolish as to be irritated at Philip’s manner, when he was giving me some good advice, and I am very sorry.’
‘What has happened to your lip?’ she exclaimed.
He put his handkerchief to it. ‘Is it bleeding still? It is a trick of mine to bite my lip when I am vexed. It seems to help to keep down words. There! I have given myself a mark of this hateful outbreak.’
He looked very unhappy, more so, Mrs. Edmonstone thought, than the actual offence required. ‘You have only failed in part,’ she said. ‘It was a victory to keep down words.’
‘The feeling is the thing,’ said Guy; ‘besides, I showed it plainly enough, without speaking.’
‘It is not easy to take advice from one so little your elder,’ began Mrs. Edmonstone, but he interrupted her. ‘It was not the advice. That was very good; I—’ but he spoke with an effort—‘I am obliged to him. It was—no, I won’t say what,’ he added, his eyes kindling, then changing in a moment to a sorrowful, resolute tone, ‘Yes, but I will, and then I shall make myself thoroughly ashamed. It was his veiled assumption of superiority, his contempt for all I have been taught. Just as if he had not every right to despise me, with his talent and scholarship, after such egregious mistakes as I had made in the morning. I gave him little reason to think highly of my attainments; but let him slight me as much as he pleases, he must not slight those who taught me. It was not Mr. Potts’ fault.’
Even the name could not spoil the spirited sound of the speech, and Mrs. Edmonstone was full of sympathy. ‘You must remember,’ she said, ‘that in the eyes of a man brought up at public school, nothing compensates for the want of the regular classical education. I have no doubt it was very provoking.’
‘I don’t want to be excused, thank you,’ said Guy. ‘Oh I am grieved; for I thought the worst of my temper had been subdued. After all that has passed—all I felt—I thought it impossible. Is there no hope for—’ He covered his face with his hands, then recovering and turning to Mrs. Edmonstone, he said, ‘It is encroaching too much on your kindness to come here and trouble you with my confessions.’
‘No, no, indeed,’ said she, earnestly. ‘Remember how we agreed that you should come to me like one of my own children. And, indeed, I do not see why you need grieve in this despairing way, for you almost overcame the fit of anger; and perhaps you were off your guard because the trial came in an unexpected way?’
‘It did, it did,’ he said, eagerly; ‘I don’t, mind being told point blank that I am a dunce, but that Mr. Potts—nay, by implication—my grandfather should be set at nought in that cool—But here I am again!’ said he, checking himself in the midst of his vehemence; ‘he did not mean that, of course. I have no one to blame but myself.’
‘I am sure,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘that if you always treat your failings in this way, you must subdue them at last.’
‘It is all failing, and resolving, and failing again!’ said Guy.
‘Yes, but the failures become slighter and less frequent, and the end is victory.’
‘The end victory!’ repeated Guy, in a musing tone, as he stood leaning against the mantelshelf.
‘Yes, to all who persevere and seek for help,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; and he raised his eyes and fixed them on her with an earnest look that surprised her, for it was almost as if the hope came home to him as something new. At that moment, however, she was called away, and directly after a voice in the next room exclaimed, ‘Are you there, Guy? I want an arm!’ while he for the first time perceived that Charles’s door was ajar.
Charles thought all this a great fuss about nothing, indeed he was glad to find there was anyone who had no patience with Philip; and in his usual mischievous manner, totally reckless of the fearful evil of interfering with the influence for good which it was to be hoped that Philip might exert over Guy, he spoke thus: ‘I begin to think the world must be more docile than I have been disposed to give it credit for. How a certain cousin of ours has escaped numerous delicate hints to mind his own business is to me one of the wonders of the world.’
‘No one better deserves that his advice should be followed,’ said Guy, with some constraint.
‘An additional reason against it,’ said Charles. ‘Plague on that bell! I meant to have broken through your formalities and had a candid opinion of Don Philip before it rang.’
‘Then I am glad of it; I could hardly have given you a candid opinion just at present.’
Charles was vexed; but he consoled himself by thinking that Guy did not yet feel himself out of his leading-strings, and was still on his good behaviour. After such a flash as this there was no fear, but there was that in him which would create mischief and disturbance enough. Charles was well principled at the bottom, and would have shrunk with horror had it been set before him how dangerous might be the effect of destroying the chance of a friendship between Guy and the only person whose guidance was likely to be beneficial to him; but his idle, unoccupied life, and habit of only thinking of things as they concerned his immediate amusement, made him ready to do anything for the sake of opposition to Philip, and enjoy the vague idea of excitement to be derived from anxiety about his father’s ward, whom at the same time he regarded with increased liking as he became certain that what he called the Puritan spirit was not native to him.
At dinner-time, Guy was as silent as on his first arrival, and there would have been very little conversation had not the other gentleman talked politics, Philip leading the discussion to bear upon the duties and prospects of landed proprietors, and dwelling on the extent of their opportunities for doing good. He tried to get Guy’s attention, by speaking of Redclyffe, of the large circle influenced by the head of the Morville family, and of the hopes entertained by Lord Thorndale that this power would prove a valuable support to the rightful cause. He spoke in vain; the young heir of Redclyffe made answers as brief, absent, and indifferent, as if all this concerned him no more than the Emperor of Morocco, and Philip, mentally pronouncing