The Heir of Redclyffe

On comparing notes as to their plans, it appeared that each party had about a week or ten days to spare; the captain before he must embark for Corfu, and Sir Guy and Lady Morville before the time they had fixed for returning home. Guy proposed to go together somewhere, spare the post-office further blunders, and get the Signor Capitano to be their interpreter. Philip thought it would be an excellent thing for his young cousins for him to take charge of them, and show them how people ought to travel; so out came his little pocket map, marked with his route, before he left Ireland, whereas they seemed to have no fixed object, but to be always going ‘somewhere.’ It appeared that they had thought of Venice, but were easily diverted from it by his design of coasting the eastern bank of the Lago di Como, and so across the Stelvio into the Tyrol, all together as far as Botzen, whence Philip would turn southward by the mountain paths, while they would proceed to Innsbruck on their return home.

Amabel was especially pleased to stay a little longer on the banks of the lake, and to trace out more of Lucia’s haunts; and if she secretly thought it would have been pleasanter without a third person, she was gratified to see how much Guy’s manner had softened Philip’s injustice and distrust, making everything so smooth and satisfactory, that at the end of the day, she told her husband that she thought his experiment had not failed.

She was making the breakfast the next morning, when the captain came into the room, and she told him Guy was gone to settle their plans with Arnaud. After lingering a little by the window, Philip turned, and with more abruptness than was usual with him, said—

‘You don’t think there is any cause of anxiety about Laura?’

‘No; certainly not!’ said Amy, surprised. ‘She has not been looking well lately, but Dr. Mayerne says it is nothing, and you know’—she blushed and looked down—‘there were many things to make this a trying time.’

‘Is she quite strong? Can she do as much as usual?’

‘She does more than ever: mamma is only afraid of her overworking herself, but she never allows that she is tired. She goes to school three days in the week, besides walking to East-hill on Thursday, to help in the singing; and she is getting dreadfully learned. Guy gave her his old mathematical books, and Charlie always calls her Miss Parabola.’

Philip was silent, knowing too well why she sought to stifle care in employment; and feeling embittered against the whole world, against her father, against his own circumstances, against the happiness of others; nay, perhaps, against the Providence which had made him what he was.

Presently Guy came in, and the first thing he said was, ‘I am afraid we must give up our plan.’

‘How?’ exclaimed both Philip and Amy.

‘I have just heard that there is a fever at Sondrio, and all that neighbourhood, and every one says it would be very foolish to expose ourselves to it.’

‘What shall we do instead?’ said Amy.

‘I told Arnaud we would let him know in an hour’s time; I thought of Venice.’

‘Venice, oh, yes, delightful.’

‘What do you say, Philip?’ said Guy.

‘I say that I cannot see any occasion for our being frightened out of our original determination. If a fever prevails among the half-starved peasantry, it need not affect well-fed healthy persons, merely passing through the country.’

‘You see we could hardly manage without sleeping there,’ said Guy: ‘we must sleep either at Colico, or at Madonna. Now Colico, they say, is a most unhealthy place at this time of year, and Madonna is the very heart of the fever—Sondrio not much better. I don’t see how it is to be safely done; and though very likely we might not catch the fever, I don’t see any use in trying.’

‘That is making yourself a slave to the fear of infection.’

‘I don’t know what purpose would be answered by running the risk,’ said Guy.

‘If you chose to give it so dignified a name as a risk,’ said Philip.

‘I don’t, then,’ said Guy, smiling. ‘I should not care if there was any reason for going there, but, as there is not, I shall face Mr. Edmonstone better if I don’t run Amy into any more chances of mischief.’

‘Is Amy grateful for the care,’ said Philip, ‘after all her wishes for the eastern bank?’

‘Amy is a good wife,’ said Guy. ‘For Venice, then. I’ll ring for Arnaud. You will come with us, won’t you, Philip?’

‘No, I thank you; I always intended to see the Valtelline, and an epidemic among the peasantry does not seem to me to be sufficient to deter.’

‘O Philip, you surely will not?’ said Amy.

‘My mind is made up, Amy, thank you.’

‘I wish you would be persuaded,’ said Guy. ‘I should like particularly to have you to lionize us there; and I don’t fancy your running into danger.’

The argument lasted long. Philip by no means approved of Venice, especially after the long loitering at Munich, thinking that in both places there was danger of Guy’s being led into mischief by his musical connections. Therefore he did his best, for Amabel’s sake, to turn them from their purpose, persuaded in his own mind that the fever was a mere bugbear, raised up by Arnaud; and, perhaps, in his full health and strength, almost regarding illness itself as a foible, far more the dread of it. He argued, therefore, in his most provoking strain, becoming more vexatious as the former annoyance was revived at finding the impossibility of making Guy swerve from his purpose, while additional mists of suspicion arose before him, making him imagine that the whole objection was caused by Guy’s dislike to submit to him, and a fit of impatience of which Amy was the victim; nay, that his cousin wanted to escape from his surveillance, and follow the beat of his inclinations; and the whole heap of prejudices and half-refuted accusations resumed their full ascendancy. Never had his manner been more vexatious, though without departing from the coolness which always characterized it; but all the time, Guy, while firm and unmoved in purpose, kept his temper perfectly, and apparently without effort. Even Amabel glowed with indignation, at the assumption with which he was striving to put her husband down, though she rejoiced to see its entire failure: for some sensible argument, or some gay, lively, good-humoured reply, was the utmost he could elicit. Guy did not seem to be in the least irritated or ruffled by the very behaviour which used to cause him so many struggles. Having once seriously said that he did not think it right to run into danger, without adequate cause, he held his position with so much ease, that he could afford to be playful, and laugh at his own dread of infection, his changeableness, and credulity. Never had temper been more entirely subdued; for surely if he could bear this, he need never fear himself again.

So passed the hour; and Amabel was heartily glad when the debate was closed by Arnaud’s coming for orders. Guy went with him; Amabel began to collect her goods; and Philip, after a few moments’ reflection, spoke in the half-compassionate, half-patronizing manner with which he used, now and then, to let fall a few crumbs of counsel or commendation for silly little Amy.

‘Well, Amy, you yielded very amiably, and that is the only way. You will always find it best to submit.’

He got no further in his intended warning against the dissipations of Venice, for her eyes were fixed on him at first with a look of extreme wonder. Then her face assumed an expression of dignity, and gently, but gravely, she said, ‘I think you forget to whom you are speaking.’

The gentlemanlike instinct made him reply, ‘I beg your pardon’—and there he stopped, as much taken by surprise as if a dove had flown in his face. He actually was confused; for in very truth, he had, after a fashion, forgotten that she was Lady Morville, not the cousin Amy with whom Guy’s character might be freely discussed. He had often presumed as far with his aunt; but she, though always turning the conversation, had never given him a rebuff. Amabel had not done; and in her soft voice, firmly, though not angrily, she spoke on. ‘One thing I wish to say, because we shall never speak on this subject again, and I was always afraid of you before. You have always misunderstood him, I might almost say, chosen to misunderstand him. You have tried his temper more than any one, and never appreciated the struggles that have subdued it. It is not because I am his wife that I say this—indeed I am not sure it becomes me to say it; yet I cannot bear that you should not be told of it, because you think he acts out of enmity to you. You little know how your friendship has been his first desire—how he has striven for it—how, after all you have done and written, he defended you with all his might when those at home were angry—how he sought you out on purpose to try to be real cordial friends’

Philip’s face had grown rigid, and chiefly at the words, ‘those at home were angry.’ ‘It is not I that prevent that friendship,’ said he: ‘it is his own want of openness. My opinion has never changed.’

‘No; I know it has never changed’ said Amy, in a tone of sorrowful displeasure. ‘Whenever it does, you will be sorry you have judged him so harshly.’

She left the room, and Philip held her in higher esteem. He saw there was spirit and substance beneath that soft girlish exterior, and hoped she would better be able to endure the troubles which her precipitate marriage was likely to cause her; but as to her husband, his combined fickleness and obstinacy had only become more apparent than ever—fickleness in forsaking his purpose, obstinacy in adherence to his own will.

Displeased and contemptuous, Philip was not softened by Guy’s freedom and openness of manner and desire to help him as far as their roads lay together. He was gracious only to Lady Morville, whom he treated with kindness, intended to show that he was pleased with her for a reproof which became her position well, though it could not hurt him. Perhaps she thought this amiability especially insufferable: for when she arrived at Varenna her chief thought was that here they should be free of him.

‘Come, Philip,’ said Guy, at that last moment, ‘I wish you would think better of it after all, and come with us to Milan.’

‘Thank you, my mind is made up.’

‘Well, mind you don’t catch the fever: for I don’t want the trouble of nursing you.’

‘Thank you; I hope to require no such services of my friends,’ said Philip, with a proud stem air, implying, ‘I don’t want you.’

‘Good-bye, then,’ said Guy. Then remembering his promise to Laura, he added, ‘I wish we could have seen more of you. They will be glad to hear of you at Hollywell. You have had one warm friend there all along.’

He was touched for a moment by this kind speech, and his tone was less grave and dignified. ‘Remember me to them when you write,’ he answered, ‘and tell Laura she must not wear herself out with her studies. Good-bye, Amy, I hope you will have a pleasant journey.’

The farewells were exchanged and the carriage drove off. ‘Poor little Amy!’ said Philip to himself, ‘how she is improved. He has a sweet little wife in her. The fates have conspired to crown him with all man can desire, and little marvel if he should abuse his advantages. Poor little Amy! I have less hope than ever, since even her evident wishes could not bend his determination in this trifle; but she is a good little creature, happy in her blindness. May it long continue! It is my uncle and aunt who are to be blamed.’

He set himself to ascend the mountain path, and they looked back, watching the firm vigorous steps with which he climbed the hill side, then stood to wave his hand to Amabel looking a perfect specimen of health and activity.

‘Just like himself,’ said Amy, drawing so long a breath that Guy smiled, but did not speak.

‘Are you much vexed?’ said she.

‘I don’t feel as if I had made the most of my opportunities.’

‘Then if you have not, I can tell you who has. What do you think of his beginning to give me a lecture how to behave to you?’

‘Did he think you wanted it very much?’

‘I don’t know: for of course I could not let him go on.’

Guy was so much diverted at the idea of her wanting a lecture on wife-like deportment, that he had no time to be angry at the impertinence, and he made her laugh also by his view that was all force of habit.

‘Now, Guido—good Cavaliere Guido—do grant me one satisfaction,’ said she, coaxingly. ‘Only say you are very glad he is gone his own way.’

On the contrary, I am sorry he is running his head into a fever,’ said Guy, pretending to be provoking.

‘I don’t want you to be glad of that, I only want you to be glad he is not sitting here towering over us.’ Guy smiled, and began to whistle—

        ‘Cock up your beaver, and cock it fu’ sprush!’

CHAPTER 31

     And turned the thistles of a curse     To types beneficent.—WORDSWORTH

It was about three weeks after the rendezvous at Bellagio, that Sir Guy and Lady Morville arrived at Vicenza, on their way from Venice. They were in the midst of breakfast when Arnaud entered, saying,—

‘It was well, Sir Guy, that you changed your intention of visiting the Valtelline with Captain Morville.’

‘What! Have you heard anything of him?’

‘I fear that his temerity has caused him to suffer. I have just heard that an Englishman of your name is severely ill at Recoara.’

‘Where?’

‘At “la badia di Recoara”. It is what in English we call a watering-place, on the mountains to the north, where the Vicentini do go in summer for “fraicheur”, but they have all returned in the last two days for fear of the infection.’

‘I’ll go and make inquiries’ said Guy, rising in haste. Returning in a quarter of an hour, he said,—‘It is true. It can be no other than poor Philip. I have seen his doctor, an Italian, who, when he saw our name written, said it was the same. He calls it “una febbre molto grave”.’

‘Very heavy! Did he only know the name in writing?’

‘Only from seeing it on his passport. He has been unable to give any directions.’

‘How dreadfully ill he must be! And alone! What shall we do? You won’t think of leaving me behind you, whatever you do?’ exclaimed Amabel, imploringly.

‘It is at no great distance, and—’

‘O, don’t say that. Only take me with you. I will try to bear it, if you don’t think it right; but it will be very hard.’

Her eyes were full of tears, but she struggled to repress them, and was silent in suspense as she saw him considering.

‘My poor Amy!’ said he, presently; ‘I believe the anxiety would be worse for you if I were to leave you here.’

‘Oh, thank you!’ exclaimed she.

‘You will have nothing to do with the nursing. No, I don’t think there is much risk; so we will go together.’

‘Thank you! thank you! and perhaps I may be of some use. But is it very infectious?’

‘I hope not: caught at Colico, and imported to a fresh place. I should think there was little fear of its spreading. However, we must soon be off: I am afraid he is very ill, and almost deserted. In the first place, I had better send an express to the Consul at Venice, to ask him to recommend us a doctor, for I have not much faith in this Italian.’

They were soon on the way to Recoara, a road bordered on one side by high rocks, on the other by a little river flowing down a valley, shut in by mountains. The valley gradually contracted in the ascent, till it became a ravine, and further on a mere crevice marked by the thick growth of the chestnut-trees; but before this greater narrowing, they saw the roofs of the houses in the little town. The sun shone clear, the air had grown fresh as they mounted higher; Amabel could hardly imagine sickness and sorrow in so fair a spot, and turned to her husband to say so, but he was deep in thought, and she would not disturb him.

The town was built on the bank of the stream, and very much shut in by the steep crags, which seemed almost to overhang the inn, to which they drove, auguring favourably of the place from its fresh, clean aspect.

Guy hastened to the patient; while Amabel was conducted to a room with a polished floor, and very little furniture, and there waited anxiously until he returned. There was a flush on his face, and almost before he spoke, he leant far out of the window to try to catch a breath of air.

‘We must find another room for him directly,’ said he. ‘He cannot possibly exist where he is—a little den—such an atmosphere of fever—enough to knock one down! Will you have one got ready for him?’

‘Directly,’ said Amabel, ringing. ‘How is he?’

‘He is in a stupor; it is not sleep. He is frightfully ill, I never felt anything like the heat of his skin. But that stifling hole would account for much; very likely he may revive, when we get him into a better atmosphere. No one has attended to him properly. It is a terrible thing to be ill in a foreign country without a friend!’

Arnaud came, and Amabel sent for the hostess, while Guy returned to his charge. Little care had been taken for the solitary traveller on foot, too ill to exact attention, and whose presence drove away custom; but when his case was taken up by a Milord Inglese, the people of the inn were ready to do their utmost to cause their neglect to be forgotten, and everything was at the disposal of the Signora. The rooms were many, but very small, and the best she could contrive was to choose three rooms on the lower floor, rather larger than the rest, and opening into each other, as well as into the passage, so that it was possible to produce a thorough draught. Under her superintendence, Anne made the apartment look comfortable, and almost English, and sending word that all was ready, she proceeded to establish herself in the corresponding rooms on the floor above.

Philip was perfectly unconscious when he was carried to his new room. His illness had continued about a week, and had been aggravated first by his incredulous and determined resistance of it, and then by the neglect with which he had been treated. It was fearful to see how his great strength had been cut down, as there he lay with scarcely a sign of life, except his gasping, labouring breath. Guy stood over him, let the air blow in from the open window, sprinkled his face with vinegar, and moistened his lips, longing for the physician, for whom, however, he knew he must wait many hours. Perplexed, ignorant of the proper treatment, fearing to do harm, and extremely anxious, he still was almost rejoiced: for there was no one to whom he was so glad to do a service, and a hope arose of full reconciliation.

The patient was somewhat revived by the fresh air, he breathed more freely, moved, and made a murmuring sound, as if striving painfully for a word.

‘“Da bere”,’ at last he said; and if Guy had not known its meaning, it would have been plain from the gasping, parched manner in which it was uttered.

‘Some water?’ said Guy, holding it to his lips, and on hearing the English, Philip opened his eyes, and, as he drank, gazed with a heavy sort of wonder. ‘Is that enough? Do you like some on your forehead?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Is that more comfortable? We only heard to-day you were ill.’

He turned away restlessly, as if hardly glad to see Guy, and not awake to the circumstances, in a dull, feverish oppression of the senses. Delirium soon came on, or, more properly, delusion. He was distressed by thinking himself deserted, and struggling to speak Italian, and when Guy replied in English, though the native tongue seemed to fall kindly on his ear, yet, to Guy’s great grief, the old dislike appeared to prevent all comfort in his presence, though he could not repel his attentions. At night the wandering increased, till it became unintelligible raving, and strength was required to keep him in bed.

Amabel seldom saw her husband this evening. He once came up to see her, when she made him drink some coffee, but he soon went, telling her he should wait up, and begging her to go to rest quietly, as she looked pale and tired. The night was a terrible one, and morning only brought insensibility. The physician arrived, a sharp-looking Frenchman, who pronounced it to be a very severe and dangerous case, more violent than usual in malaria fever, and with more affection of the brain. Guy was glad to be set to do something, instead of standing by in inaction; but ice and blisters were applied without effect, and they were told that it was likely to be long before the fever abated.

Day after day passed without improvement, and with few gleams of consciousness, and even these were not free from wandering; they were only intervals in the violent ravings, or the incoherent murmurs, and were never clear from some torturing fancy that he was alone and ill at Broadstone, and neither the Edmonstones nor his brother-officers would come to him, or else that he was detained from Stylehurst. ‘Home’ was the word oftenest on his lips. ‘I would not go home,’ the only expression that could sometimes be distinctly heard. He was obliged to depend on Guy as the only Englishman at hand; but whenever he recognized him, the traces of repugnance were evident, and in his clearer intervals, he always showed a preference for Arnaud’s attendance. Still Guy persevered indefatigably, sitting up with him every night, and showing himself an invaluable nurse, with his tender hand, modulated voice, quick eye, and quiet activity. His whole soul was engrossed: he never appeared to think of himself, or to be sensible of fatigue; but was only absorbed in the one thought of his patient’s comfort! He seldom came to Amabel except at meals, and now and then for a short visit to her sitting-room to report on Philip’s condition. If he could spare a little more time when Philip was in a state of stupor, she used to try to persuade him to take some rest; and if it was late, or in the heat of noon, she could sometimes get him, as a favour to her, to lie down on the sofa, and let her read to him; but it did not often end in sleep, and he usually preferred taking her out into the fresh air, and wandering about among the chestnut-trees and green hillocks higher up in the ravine.

Very precious were these walks, with the quiet grave talk that the scene and the circumstances inspired—when he would tell the thoughts that had occupied him in his night-watches, and they shared the subdued and deep reflection suited to this period of apprehension. These were her happiest times, but they were few and uncertain. She had in the meantime to wait, to watch, and hope alone, though she had plenty of employment; for besides writing constant bulletins, all preparations for the sickroom fell to her share. She had to send for or devise substitutes for all the conveniences that were far from coming readily to hand in a remote Italian inn—to give orders, send commissions to Vicenza, or even to Venice, and to do a good deal, with Anne’s’ assistance, by her own manual labour. Guy said she did more for Philip outside his room than he did inside, and often declared how entirely at a loss he should have been if she had not been there, with her ready resources, and, above all, with her sweet presence, making the short intervals he spent out of the sick chamber so much more than repose, such refreshment at the time, and in remembrance.

Thus it had continued for more than a fortnight, when one evening as the French physician was departing, he told Guy that he would not fail to come the next night, as he saw every reason to expect a crisis. Guy sat intently marking every alteration in the worn, flushed, suffering face that rested helplessly on the pillows, and every unconscious movement of the wasted, nerveless limbs stretched out in pain and helplessness, contrasting his present state with what he was when last they parted, in the full pride of health, vigour, and intellect. He dwelt on all that had passed between them from the first, the strange ancestral enmity that nothing had as yet overcome, the misunderstandings, the prejudices, the character whose faultlessness he had always revered, and the repeated failure of all attempts to be friends, as if his own impatience and passion had borne fruit in the merited distrust of the man whom of all others he respected, and whom he would fain love as a brother. He earnestly hoped that so valuable a life might be spared; but if that might not be, his fervent wish was, that at least a few parting words of goodwill and reconciliation might be granted to be his comfort in remembrance.

So mused Guy during the night, as he watched the heavy doze between sleep and stupor, and tried to catch the low, indistinct mutterings that now and then seemed to ask for something. Towards morning Philip awoke more fully, and as Guy was feeling his pulse, he faintly asked,—