‘Yes,’ said Guy, firmly, the low sweet tones of his voice full of tenderness. ‘You are very ill; but not without hope.’ Then, after a pause, during which Philip looked thoughtful, but calm, he added,—‘I have tried to bring a clergyman here, but I could not succeed. Would you like me to read to you?’
‘Thank you-presently—but I have something to say. Some more water;—thank you.’ Then, after pausing, ‘Guy, you have thought I judged you harshly; I meant to act for the best.’
‘Don’t think of that,’ said Guy, with a rush of joy at hearing the words of reconciliation he had yearned for so long.
‘And now you have been most kind. If I live, you shall see that I am sensible of it;’ and he feebly moved his hand to his cousin, who pressed it, hardly less happy than on the day he stood before Mrs. Edmonstone in the dressing-room. Presently, Philip went on. ‘My sister has my will. My love to her, and to—to—to poor Laura.’ His voice suddenly failed; and while Guy was again moistening his lips, he gathered strength, and said,—‘You and Amy will do what you can for her. Do not let the blow come suddenly. Ah! you do not know. We have been engaged this long time.’
Guy did not exclaim, but Philip saw his amazement. ‘It was very wrong; it was not her fault,’ he added. ‘I can’t tell you now; but if I live all shall be told. If not, you will be kind to her?’
‘Indeed we will.’
‘Poor Laura!’ again said Philip, in a much weaker voice, and after lying still a little longer, he faintly whispered,—‘Read to me.’
Guy read till he fell into a doze, which lasted till Arnaud came in the morning, and Guy went up to his wife.
‘Amy,’ said he, entering with a quiet bright look, ‘he has spoken to me according to my wish.’
‘Then it is all right,’ said Amabel, answering his look with one as calm and sweet. ‘Is he better?’