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The Heir of Redclyffe

Chapter 21
I will sing, for I am sad,
For many my misdeeds;
It is my sadness makes me glad,
For love for sorrow pleads.--WILLIAMS.
After his last interview with Philip, Guy returned to his rooms to force himself into
occupation till his cousin should come to acknowledge that here, at least, there was
nothing amiss. He trusted that when it was proved all was right in this quarter, the
prejudice with regard to the other might be diminished, though his hopes were lower
since he had found out the real grounds of the accusation, reflecting that he should never
be able to explain without betraying his uncle.
He waited in vain. The hour passed at which Philip's coming was possible; Guy was
disappointed, but looked for a letter; but post after post failed to bring him one. Perhaps
Philip would write from Hollywell, or else Mr. Edmonstone would write, or at least he
was sure that Charles would write--Charles, whose confidence and sympathy, expressed
in almost daily letters, had been such a comfort. But not a line came. He reviewed in
memory his last letter to Charles, wondering whether it could have offended him; but it
did not seem possible; he thought over all that Philip could have learnt in his visit, to see
if it could by any means have been turned to his disadvantage. But he knew he had done
nothing to which blame could be attached; he had never infringed the rules of college
discipline; and though still backward, and unlikely to distinguish himself, he believed that
was the worst likely to have been said of him. He only wished his true character was as
good as what would be reported of him.
As he thought and wondered, he grew more and more restless and unhappy. He could
imagine no reason for the silence, unless Mr. Edmonstone had absolutely forbidden any
intercourse, and it did not seem probable that he would issue any commands in a manner
to bind a grown-up son, more especially as there had been no attempt at communication
with Amy. It was terrible thus, without warning, to be cut off from her, and all besides
that he loved. As long as Charles wrote, he fancied her sitting by, perhaps sealing the
letter, and he could even tell by the kind of paper and envelope, whether they were sitting
in the dressing- room or down-stairs; but now there was nothing, no assurance of
sympathy, no word of kindness; they might all have given him up; those unhappy words
were like a barrier, cutting him off for ever from the happiness of which he had once had
a glimpse. Was the Redclyffe doom of sin and sorrow really closing in upon him?
If it had not been for chapel and study, he hardly knew how he should have got through
that term; but as the end of it approached, a feverish impatience seized on him whenever
the post came in, for a letter, if only to tell him not to come to Hollywell. None came, and
he saw nothing for it but to go to Redclyffe; and if he dreaded seeing it in its altered state
when his spirits were high and unbroken, how did he shrink from it now! He did,
however, make up his mind, for he felt that his reluctance almost wronged his own