按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
almost all the poetry he had ever written。
There were the classical translations that used to make him inaccurate；
a scrap of a very boyish epic about King Arthur； beginning with a storm
at Tintagel； sundry half ballads； the verses he was suspected of； and
never would show； that first summer at Hollywell； and a very touching
vision of his fair young mother。 Except a translation or two； some
words written to suit their favourite airs （a thing that used to seem
to come as easily to him as singing to a bird）； and a few lively mock
heroic accounts of walks or parties； which had all been public
property； there was no more that she could believe to have been
composed till last year； for he was more disposed to versify in sorrow
than in joy。 There were a good many written during his loneliness； for
his reflections had a tendency to flow into verse； and pouring them out
thus had been a great solace。 The lines were often imperfect and
irregular； but not one that was not deep； pure； and genuine； and here
and there scattered with passages of exquisite beauty and harmony； and
full of power and grace。 No one could have looked at them without
owning in them the marks of a thorough poet； but this was not what the
wife was seeking； and when she perceived it； though it made her face
beam with a sort of satisfied pride； it was a secondary thing。 She was
studying not his intellect； but his soul； she did not care whether he
would have been a poet； what she looked for was the record of the
sufferings and struggles of the sad six months when his character was
established； strengthened； and settled。
She found it。 There was much to which she alone had the clue； too
deep； and too obscurely hinted； to be understood at a glance。 She met
with such evidence of suffering as made her shudder and weep； tokens of
the dark thoughts that had gathered round him； of the manful spirit of
penitence and patience that had been his stay； and of the gleams that
lighted his darkest hours； and showed he had never been quite forsaken。
Now and then came a reference which brought home what he had told her；
how the thought of his Verena had cheered him when he dared not hope
she would be restored。 Best of all were the lines written when the
radiance of Christmas was； once for all； dispersing the gloom； and the
vision opening on him； which he was now realizing。 In reading them；
she felt the same marvellous sympathy of subdued wondering joy in the
victory of which she had partaken as she knelt beside his death…bed。
These were the last。 He had been too happy for poetry； except one or
two scraps in Switzerland； and these had been hers from the time she
had detected them。
No wonder Amabel almost lived on those papers！ It would not be too
much to say she was very happy in her own way when alone with them； the
desk on a chair by her sofa。 They were too sacred for any one else；
she did not for many weeks show one even to her mother； but to her they
were like a renewal of his presence； soothing the craving after him
that had been growing on her ever since the first few days when his
sustaining power had not passed away。 As she sorted them； and made out
their dates； finding fresh stores of meaning at each fresh perusal she
learnt through them； as well as through her own trial； so patiently
borne； to enter into his character even more fully than when he was in
her sight。 Mrs。 Edmonstone； who had at first been inclined to dread
her constant dwelling on them； soon perceived that they were her great
aids through this sad winter。
She had much pleasure in receiving the portrait； which was sent her by
Mr。 Shene。 It was a day or two before she could resolve to look at it；
or feel that she could do so calmly。 It was an unfinished sketch；
taken more with a view to the future picture than to the likeness； but
Guy's was a face to be better represented by being somewhat idealized；
than by copying merely the material form of the features。 An ordinary
artist might have made him like a Morville； but Mr。 Shene had shown all
that art could convey of his individual self； with almost one of his
unearthly looks。 The beautiful eyes； with somewhat of their peculiar
lightsomeness； the flexible look of the lip； the upward pose of the
head； the set of that lock of hair that used to wave in the wind； the
animated position； 'just ready for a start；' as Charles used to call
it； were recalled as far as was in the power of chalk and crayon； but
so as to remind Amabel of him more as one belonging to heaven than to
earth。 The picture used to be on her mantel…shelf all night； the
shipwreck cross before it； and Sintram and Redclyffe on each side； and
she brought it into the dressing…room with her in the morning； setting
it up opposite to the sofa； before settling herself。
Her days were much alike。 She felt far from well； or capable of
exertion； and was glad it was thought right to keep her entirely
upstairs； she only wished to spare her mother anxiety； by being
submissive to her care； in case these cares should be the last for her。
She did not dwell on the future； nor ask herself whether she looked for
life or death。 Guy had bidden her not desire the last； and she
believed she did not form a wish； but there was repose to her in the
belief that she ought not to conceal from herself that there was more
than ordinary risk； and that it was right to complete all her affairs
in this world； and she was silent when her mother tried to interest her
in prospects that might cheer her； as if afraid to fasten on them； and
finding more peace in entire submission； than in feeding herself on
hope that must be coupled with fear。
Christmas…day was not allowed to pass without being a festival for her；
in her quiet room； where she lay； full of musings on his lonely
Christmas night last year； his verses folded among her precious books；
and the real joy of the season more within her grasp than in the
turmoil of last year。 She was not afraid now to let herself fancy his
voice in the Angel's Song； and the rainbow was shining on her cloud。
CHAPTER 38
The coldness from my heart is gone；
But still the weight is there；
And thoughts which I abhor will come
To tempt me to despair。SOUTHEY
Amabel's one anxiety was for Philip。 For a long time nothing was heard
of him at Hollywell； and she began to fear that he might have been less
fit to take care of himself than he had persuaded her to believe。 When
at length tidings reached them； it was through the De Courcys。 'Poor
Morville；' wrote Maurice； 'had been carried ashore at Corfu； in the
stupor of a second attack of fever。 He had been in extreme danger for
some time； and though now on the mend； was still unable to give any
account of himself。'
In effect； it was a relapse of the former disease； chiefly affecting
the bra