The Heir of Redclyffe. Charlotte M. Yonge
‘Well!’ and another long pause.
‘Philip, I don’t know whether you’ll be angry with me.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Philip, marvelling at what was coming.
‘Guy says he does not want to keep up the feud, and I wish you would not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The deadly feud!’ said Charlotte.
‘What nonsense is this?’ said Philip.
‘Surely—Oh Philip, there always was a deadly feud between our ancestors, and the Redclyffe Morvilles, and it was very wrong, and ought not to be kept up now.’
‘It is not I that keep it up.’
‘Is it not?’ said Charlotte. ‘But I am sure you don’t like Guy. And I can’t think why not, unless it is the deadly feud, for we are all so fond of him. Laura says it is a different house since he came.’
‘Hum!’ said Philip. ‘Charlotte, you did well to make me promise not to be angry with you, by which, I presume, you mean displeased. I should like to know what put this notion into your head.’
‘Charlie told me,’ almost whispered Charlotte, hanging down her head. ‘And—and—’
‘And what? I can’t hear.’
Charlotte was a good deal frightened; but either from firmness, or from the female propensity to have the last word, or it might be the spirit of mischief, she got out—‘You have made me quite sure of it yourself.’
She was so alarmed at having said this, that had it not been undignified, she would have run quite away, and never stopped till she came to East-hill. Matters were not mended when Philip said authoritatively, and as if he was not in the least bit annoyed (which was the more vexatious), ‘What do you mean, Charlotte?’
She had a great mind to cry, by way of getting out of the scrape; but having begun as a counsellor and peacemaker, it would never do to be babyish; and on his repeating the question, she said, in a tone which she could not prevent from being lachrymose, ‘You make Guy almost angry, you tease him, and when people praise him, you answer as if it would not last! And it is very unfair of you,’ concluded she, with almost a sob.
‘Charlotte,’ replied Philip, much more kindly than she thought she deserved, after the reproach that seemed to her so dreadfully naughty, ‘you may dismiss all fear of deadly feud, whatever you may mean by it. Charles has been playing tricks on you. You know, my little cousin, that I am a Christian, and we live in the nineteenth century.’
Charlotte felt as if annihilated at the aspect of her own folly. He resumed—‘You misunderstood me. I do think Guy very agreeable. He is very attentive to Charles, very kind to you, and so attractive, that I don’t wonder you like him. But those who are older than you see that he has faults, and we wish to set him on his guard against them. It may be painful to ourselves, and irritating to him, but depend upon it, it is the proof of friendship. Are you satisfied, my little cousin?’
She could only say humbly, ‘I beg your pardon.’
‘You need not ask pardon. Since you had the notion, it was right to speak, as it was to me, one of your own family. When you are older, you need never fear to speak out in the right place. I am glad you have so much of the right sort of feminine courage, though in this case you might have ventured to trust to me.’
So ended Charlotte’s anxieties respecting the deadly feud, and she had now to make up her mind to the loss of her playfellow, who was to go to Oxford at Easter, when he would be just eighteen, his birthday being the 28th of March. Both her playmates were going, Bustle as well as Guy, and it was at first proposed that Deloraine should go too, but Guy bethought himself that Oxford would be a place of temptation for William; and not choosing to trust the horse to any one else, resolved to leave both at Hollywell.
His grandfather had left an allowance for Guy, until his coming of age, such as might leave no room for extravagance, and which even Philip pronounced to be hardly sufficient for a young man in his position. ‘You know,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, in his hesitating, good-natured way, ‘if ever you have occasion sometimes for a little—a little more—you need only apply to me. Don’t be afraid, anything rather than run into debt. You know me, and ’tis your own.’
‘This shall do,’ said Guy, in the same tone as he had fixed his hours of study.
Each of the family made Guy a birthday present, as an outfit for Oxford; Mr. Edmonstone gave him a set of studs, Mrs. Edmonstone a Christian Year, Amabel copied some of his favourite songs, Laura made a drawing of Sintram, Charlotte worked a kettle-holder, with what was called by courtesy a likeness of Bustle. Charles gave nothing, professing that he would do nothing to encourage his departure.
‘You don’t know what a bore it is to lose the one bit of quicksilver in the house!’ said he, yawning. ‘I shall only drag on my existence till you come back.’
‘You, Charles, the maker of fun!’ said Guy, amazed.
‘It is a case of flint and steel,’ said Charles; ‘but be it owing to who it will, we have been alive since you came here. You have taken care to be remembered. We have been studying you, or laughing at you, or wondering what absurdity was to come next.’
‘I am very sorry—that is, if you are serious. I hoped at least I appeared like other people.’
‘I’ll tell you what you appear like. Just what I would be if I was a free man.’
‘Never say that, Charlie!’
‘Nay, wait a bit. I would never be so foolish. I would never give my sunny mornings to Euripides; I would not let the best hunter in the county go when I had wherewithal to pay for him.’
‘You would not have such an ill-conditioned self to keep in rule.’
‘After all,’ continued Charles, yawning, ‘it is no great compliment to say I am sorry you are going. If you were an Ethiopian serenader, you would be a loss to me. It is something to see anything beyond this old drawing-room, and the same faces doing the same things every day. Laura poking over her drawing, and meditating upon the last entry in Philip’s memorandum-book, and Amy at her flowers or some nonsense or other, and Charlotte and the elders all the same, and a lot of stupid people dropping in and a lot of stupid books to read, all just alike. I can tell what they are like without looking in!’ Charles yawned again, sighed, and moved wearily. ‘Now, there came some life and freshness with you. You talk of Redclyffe, and your brute creation there, not like a book, and still less like a commonplace man; you are innocent and unsophisticated, and take new points of view; you are something to interest oneself about; your coming in is something to look forward to; you make the singing not such mere milk-and-water, your reading the Praelectiones is an additional landmark to time; besides the mutton of to-day succeeding the beef of yesterday. Heigh-ho! I’ll tell you what, Guy. Though I may carry it off with a high hand, ’tis no joke to be a helpless log all the best years of a man’s life—nay, for my whole life—for at the very best of the contingencies the doctors are always flattering me with, I should make but a wretched crippling affair of it. And if that is the best hope they give me, you may guess it is likely to be a pretty deal worse. Hope? I’ve been hoping these ten years, and much good has it done me. I say, Guy,’ he proceeded, in a tone of extreme bitterness, though with a sort of smile, ‘the only wonder is that I don’t hate the very sight of you! There are times when I feel as if I could bite some men—that Tomfool Maurice de Courcy, for instance, when I hear him rattling on, and think—’
‘I know I have often talked thoughtlessly, I have feared afterwards I might have given you pain.’
‘No, no, you never have; you have carried me along with you. I like nothing better than to hear of your ridings, and shootings, and boatings. It is a sort of life.’
Charles had never till now alluded seriously to his infirmity