The first constraint of ceremony having been broken, and the subject so
near to the hearts of all touched upon even on the first night of their
acquaintance, as every succeeding day passed they became more attached
to each other—the parents, to one they looked upon and loved as a
son—the children, to their poor brother’s friend and dearest companion.
Day by day the subject of poor Herbert’s fate was the theme of
conversation; they were never weary of it, and Philip unfolded to them
gently but unreservedly his convictions that Herbert still
lived—confined perhaps in some lonely hill-fort, away from the capital
of Mysore, or engaged in the hated service of the ruler of the country.
For many others were known to have submitted to Tippoo’s will in this
respect, in the hope that some opportunity would be afforded for escape,
or some action with their countrymen would facilitate their desertion.
Poor Amy! the bitterest trial she had endured since the news of
Herbert’s captivity, and next to his supposed death, was the meeting
with Philip, and receiving from his own hands the little packet which
Herbert had entrusted to him in case of his death, and which he had
retained. For many days she could not see him; but at length she fixed a
day and hour, and he walked over to Beechwood. He had not seen her
except at church, where he had caught a glimpse of her graceful figure,
dressed in simple mourning: this only excited his curiosity to know more
of one whom his poor friend had loved with such intensity of affection—a
love so faithfully reciprocated.
Mrs. Hayward received the young soldier, and in a short conversation
with him justly estimated the strength and delicacy of his feelings; it
was impossible for any one to have been more deeply aware of the
difficult part he had to perform, nor to have evinced more tenderness in
the manner in which he executed it.
‘I would not have pressed Miss Hayward upon the subject,’ he said; ‘I
would not willingly distress her, nor excite thoughts which must
violently affect her; but I made a promise solemnly to Herbert, and I
have come to fulfil it: and it will be a gratification to me if I am
allowed to do so. Still, if she declines an interview with me, I would
leave the packet with you, Mrs. Hayward—convinced that it will be in
safe hands, and it can be delivered or not to Miss Hayward as you
please.’
‘If you will remain here, Captain Dalton, I will see Amy, and state what
you say to her,’ replied the old lady, ‘but I can promise nothing: she
is usually calm and strong-minded, but your coming may have such an
effect upon her as to unfit her for receiving you. You shall, however,
soon know the truth.’ And so saying she left the room.
Philip looked around. There were books, Italian and Spanish poets open
upon the table, with some beautiful embroidery, which showed that Amy
must have been there when he was announced. On a side table was an
unfinished landscape—a large tree, a few sheep, and a mossy bank,
beautifully painted; and the colours and water which stood near it
proved that she had lately been engaged upon it. Philip went to examine
it, and while admiring the freedom and vigour of the drawing, and the
keen perception of nature evident in the colouring, the door gently
opened, and a lady entered, whose appearance caused in his heart a
thrill of excitement, and a confusion in his address which he had little
expected.
‘Miss Hayward, I presume,’ he said, advancing to her with hesitation;
for her beauty, the sweet expression of her face, and her mild blue
eyes, fixed his attention, and rendered his manner involuntarily
constrained.
Amy could not reply, her heart was full even to choking; she had in vain
tried to compose herself when his name was announced; but unable to do
so, she had left the room; and it was only on hearing the message her
mother had delivered, that she determined to see the friend of her
Herbert, to speak to him who had received his last message for her; and
she came down alone to meet him. She had, however, taxed her powers of
endurance to the utmost: the sight of the tall and manly figure of
Philip, his dark and expressive features—bronzed somewhat by an eastern
sun, yet preserving the ruddy glow of health—his soldier-like form and
bearing—all caused at first a rush of remembrances almost too powerful
to endure; and her imagination, despite of her efforts not to yield to
such thoughts, could not help picturing to herself how Herbert would
have been improved—how he would have looked, how he would have met her
after their long absence! She could not speak to Dalton, but trembled
exceedingly, and would have fallen; but, seeing her agitation, he
assisted her to a seat; she sank into it, and, unable to speak, buried
her face in her hands. Philip sat silent for a while, but he saw that
further delay would only be a protraction of her misery.
‘Miss Hayward,’ he said very respectfully, ‘I am the bearer of a small
packet for you, which I promised to deliver; if you will receive it from
my hands, I shall be gratified, as you will have enabled me to fulfil a
promise I have looked on as sacred.’
Again Amy endeavoured to reply, but her words failed her, and her hand
trembled so much as she stretched it out to him, that he feared the
consequences of her emotion.
‘I implore you to be calm, Miss Hayward; shall I ring for water—for your
mother? can I do aught to assist you?’ he continued, as he gave her the
little packet, which she received with extreme agitation, and not daring
to look at him.
‘No, I thank you, Captain Dalton,’ she said at length, after a severe
effort to repress her feelings, in which she partly succeeded. ‘I am
better now, and will hear whatever he—whatever you have to say—it will
be better than to delay.’
But Philip feared the result, and urged that her mother at least should
be present.
‘No,’ she replied, ‘it is better thus; with her I should fail, alone, I
think, I can be firm; therefore proceed.’
And he obeyed her: he told her of their last service—of the events of
the war; and when she appeared to listen calmly, he mentioned their last
few days’ intercourse, their last interview, their farewell, and their
mutual promises in case of the death of either. There was no message in
particular to herself—the packet would explain all, he said; he had been
desired to mention to her the events that had occurred before he
received it, and he was thankful he had been spared to deliver the
message himself.
Amy listened patiently, and grew calmer as he proceeded; he could not
see her features, for her hand covered them as she leaned back; but at
length, before he ceased, he could perceive that his simple narrative
had soothed her; for a silent tear forced its way between her slender
fingers, and trickled over her fair hand; she appeared not to be aware
of it, and others followed rapidly; nature had yielded her most gentle
remedy for a troubled spirit—silent tears, which flow without pain or
sobbings.
He did not disturb her thoughts, which appeared entirely to absorb her,
and he fancied that she prayed mentally, for her lips moved. He arose,
and stealing to the door, opened it very gently and quitted the
apartment; it was enough that he had seen and spoken to her. Mrs.
Compton stood without, anxiously awaiting the issue, should there have
been occasion for her aid; he told her how touchingly, how beautifully
she had heard him; and the mother was glad that Dalton had seen her,
that the crisis had passed so calmly.
‘She will be better for this hereafter,’ she said, and judged rightly.
Amy was more cheerful, and more equably so from that day.
Mrs. Hayward accompanied Philip to her husband’s study, to bear him the
happy tidings that had so rejoiced her; and here they long and earnestly
talked over Philip’s hopes, his almost certainty that Herbert lived.
There was much which appeared to both Mr. and Mrs. Hayward improbable in
what he thought—much that they could not understand, from their
ignorance of the habits of the natives, and of their highly civilised
and cultivated character. In the end, however, they could not but
encourage the glimmering of hope which had entered their minds—dimmed,
it is true, by doubts and fears, but still abiding there. It would have
been cruel, however, to have mentioned this to Amy, and for the present
she was ignorant of it.
Amy sat long so absorbed in thought that she had not noticed the
departure of Philip Dalton; and when she spoke, not daring to withdraw
her hands from her eyes, and received no answer, she looked around and
saw that she was alone. Then she thanked Philip in her heart for his
tender consideration of her, and long remembered the act, simple as it
was, with gratitude. She held the packet she had received, and once more
dared to look on the well-known handwriting. She knew that it could be
of no later date than the letters she had already in her possession; but
it was not opened, it was to be given her only in case of his death; and
her mind was oppressed with feelings of awe, as she almost hesitated to
break the seal and peruse its contents. It is a period for solemn
thought when we open a letter from one known to be dead—to think that
the hand which traced the characters is cold and powerless, that the
mind whose thoughts are there recorded is no longer constituted as ours.
This carries us involuntarily into a deep train of thought and
speculation, vague and indefinite—leading to no end but a vain striving
for knowledge of what is better hidden in futurity. Or if the writing be
that of one dear or familiar to us, how many reminiscences crowd
instantly into the mind! tokens of affection, in which nature is
prolific, soothing the thoughts of the survivor, while they hallow the
memory of the dead.
Amy’s packet was precious indeed; Herbert had written to her gravely and
thoughtfully, yet here and there with passionate love, as though he had
at times failed in checking the expression of feelings to which, when
she received the letter, he could no longer respond. He had enclosed a
little locket, which contained his hair, and implored her with an
earnestness which his strong sense of honour prompted, but which cost
him pain to write and her to peruse, while she honoured his memory in
death, not to refuse that station in life to which she would be
solicited by many. She appreciated these expressions with a just sense
of the feelings under which he had written them; but while she read
them, she more strongly than ever clung to his memory with grateful and
devoted, yet mournful affection. And could Philip have seen her as she
rose from the perusal of that letter, with eyes dim and glistening with
tears, and advancing to the window, look forth in her calm and gentle
beauty over the broad and glowing landscape—he might have worshipped her
in his heart as a personification of one of those pure beings who do
service in heaven, and who, touched with our infirmities, can be
supposed to feel in some degree the sorrows of an earthly existence.
From that day forth there was no reserve on Philip’s part towards the
Beechwood family, with whom he was ever a welcome and a sought-for
guest. His own affairs, and a visit to his elder brother (for his
mother, his only surviving parent, had died while he was in India),
occupied him for a month after his departure from the rectory; and when
this period had arrived, he was only too glad to avail himself of the
pressing invitations of both families to return and spend some time
alternately with them. The young Haywards too had returned home; the one
from Scotland, where he had been on a visit; the other from Oxford,
where he was studying for a degree.
-------