Elizabeth Sewell (1815-1906), Amy Herbert (1844), 1886 edition
Produced by Daniel FROMONT
AMY HERBERT
BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. EDINBURGH AND LONDON
AMY HERBERT
BY
ELIZABETH M. SEWELL
Why should we fear Youth's draught of joy, If pure, would sparkle less?
Why should the cup the sooner cloy Which God Hath deign'd to bless?
CHRISTIAN YEAR.
NEW EDITION
LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
1886
AMY HERBERT.
CHAPTER I.
In a remote picturesque village, on the borders of one of the few
remaining forests in England, was situated the home of Amy Herbert. It
was a lovely cottage, with a thatched roof and latticed windows, covered
with creepers and roses, and standing upon a smooth velvet lawn, which
gently sloped to the edge of a clear stream, that flowed sparkling along
at the bottom of the garden. A small but very beautiful pleasure-ground
divided it from the forest, which stretched far away behind for many
miles; whilst in the front it commanded a view over the village of
Emmerton, with its scattered dwellings and its gray church-tower, and
the distant country beyond. The interior of the cottage consisted of
a drawing-room, with windows opening upon the lawn, a small study, a
dining-room which looked out on the most retired part of the garden, and
several bedrooms; and it was here that Amy Herbert passed the earliest
and the happiest portion of her life: and though to some it might
have seemed that her pleasures could have been but few, as she had no
companions of her own age, not many servants to wait upon her, and no
money to expend on whatever might be the fancy of the moment, yet it may
be doubted whether any of those who have been brought up in the midst of
luxury, have ever spent so happy a childhood as hers. For Amy lived in
her quiet home, with the mother who to her was all in all; and when she
sat by her side at work, or read to her aloud, or walked with her, or
listened to her sweet voice as she sang her favourite songs, she had not
a wish for anything else that the world could give. In the summer,
Amy's mornings were employed in learning from her mother all that was
considered necessary for the education of a lady; for Mrs Herbert,
besides possessing a well-cultivated mind, understood both music and
drawing, and spared neither time nor trouble in endeavouring to give her
child a taste for the same pursuits. The afternoons were often spent in
an arbour, shut out from the view of every passer-by, where Amy read to
her mother the books which most interested her; and in the evening she
generally walked with her into the village, either to inquire after some
of their poor neighbours, or to pay a visit to the rectory, where the
affection with which she was received was always a source of enjoyment,
though there were no children to be her play-fellows. Occasionally,
also, Amy would persuade her mother to wander with her into the forest,
and there, leaving her seated on the trunk of some old tree, with her
book or her work, she would search amongst the thick underwood for wild
flowers or wood strawberries, and return to her, triumphantly laden,
as she said, with spoils: and when the falling dews and the gathering
twilight told that it was the hour of rest. Amy, kneeling in her
chamber, repeated her evening prayers, and, after receiving her mother's
last fond kiss and her fervent blessing, laid her head upon her pillow,
to dream of the joys of the past day, and the interests of the coming
morrow.
The winter also brought its delights: the warm fire-side in the morning,
and the quick walk in the middle of the day, when the sun was shining
and the earth glittering with the frost, and the tales of days and
people long gone by, with which Mrs Herbert would amuse her little girl
in the dusky twilight; whilst in the evening came the bright lamp and
the hissing urn, to make them forget that there was anything like cold
or discomfort to be endured without. And so Amy's childhood passed
tranquilly on; not that it was entirely free from interruptions
and disappointments, or that she was always able to follow her own
inclinations; for there were gloomy days and causes of vexation, and
she had faults which, at times, interfered with her happiness; but
her annoyances were soon over, and whenever she gave way to any
evil feelings, either of ill temper, indolence, or carelessness, the
sorrowful expression of her mother's countenance, and the grave tone of
her voice, never failed to recall her quickly to a better mind.
There were, besides, other pleasures to vary the regularity of Amy's
life; a drive in the rector's carriage to the neighbouring town, or an
invitation to drink tea at the parsonage, or, what she most delighted
in, a long walk with her mother, to wander over a large old house, which
was about two miles distant from the cottage, and situated on the same
side of the forest, though in a different direction from the village.
Emmerton Hall was indeed a most interesting place; the house--the work
of ages passed away--was of gray stone, deeply stained by exposure to
the severity of many a wintry storm. It was a large, irregular
building, with high gable ends, deep oriel windows, turrets with pointed
pinnacles, and heavy, clustering chimneys nearly hidden by masses of
the rich, dark ivy which covered a great proportion of the walls. The
principal front consisted of the original three-gabled house and two
projecting wings which had been added at a later period, and along its
whole length extended a broad gravel terrace, divided from the other
part of the grounds by a stone balustrade, and ornamented at regular
intervals with large Italian vases. From this terrace a flight of steps
at each end descended to the pleasure-garden, which was laid out in
green lawns, and shrubberies, and winding walks, and bounded by a clear
sheet of water flowing through the whole of the demesne. On the other
side of the water stretched a richly-wooded park that had once formed a
portion of the forest, whilst from the terrace might be seen beyond this
a wide expanse of lovely country,--corn-fields, meadows, villages,
and churches, blended together in the soft mists of the distance, and
terminated by the faint shadow which marked the outline of one of the
highest ranges of hills in all England.
To the right of the house the ground rose abruptly in a hill of
considerable height, the sides of which had been partly formed into
smooth grassy terraces, and partly planted with beech, ash, elm, and oak
trees, and amongst these many walks were cut, ascending gradually to
the top, and opening at length upon a line of down, from whence might be
discovered a view so extensive as to reach even to the glittering waves
of the ocean.
At the back and to the left of the mansion, the grounds were of great
extent, and still beyond them lay the park, carrying the eye into deep
hollows and sunny glades, till its furthest trees were lost amongst the
rich foliage of the adjacent forest.
Such was the exterior of Emmerton Hall, and the interior suited well
with it in beauty. The oldest part of the building consisted, indeed,
of long, low chambers, wainscoted with dark oak, and giving an idea of
solemnity, if not of gloom; but the wings, which were of a later date,
contained spacious saloons, and large lofty drawing-rooms hung with
paintings, and rich in splendid though old-fashioned, furniture, that
would have done honour to the palace of the proudest noble in the land.
It was not amongst these, however, that Amy Herbert found her chief
enjoyment,--she cared little for the more modern additions; but her
great pleasure was to wander through the long passages, and explore the
dark rooms which had for years been disused, while the silent mansion
echoed with the gay sounds of her young voice, as she discovered
some hitherto unknown closet, or started back half amused, and half
frightened, at the grim visage of some valiant knight or ancient lady
which stared at her from the walls.
There was a chapel, too, attached to the house; and great was Amy's
delight to look down from the private gallery that had been specially
reserved for the ladies of the family, upon the massive oaken seats
ranged on each side of the narrow aisle, and while the rays of the sun,
streaming through the painted glass of the east window, lighted up every
corner of the building with a rich, unearthly hue, to people them in her
own imagination with the servants and retainers, who, she had been told,
once occupied them daily.
For the first few years of her life, Amy's visits to Emmerton Hall had
been those of unmixed happiness; but as she grew older, and learned
to feel more and more that no joy was complete unless her mother could
share it with her, she began to perceive that, however willingly Mrs
Herbert might grant her petition to visit the old house, and however
patiently she might wait whilst she satisfied all her childish
curiosity, yet, at their return home, there was always a look of sorrow
on her countenance, and sometimes even a tear glistening in her eye; and
the cause of this she was soon able to understand, for Emmerton had been
to Mrs Herbert all that the little cottage was to Amy. It had been the
scene of her earliest pleasures--the home of her childhood--the spot
where she had dwelt with parents, brothers, sisters, and friends, who
were now, some dead, some scattered in distant countries, and all so far
from her as to make her feel lonely and sad in the halls where once
she had known little but enjoyment. But it was not till Amy had nearly
reached her twelfth year that she became aware of the increasing extent
of the painful feelings excited in her mother's mind by these visits to
the Hall. During the first year of her marriage, Mrs Herbert had lived
at the cottage, but her family were still settled at Emmerton, and the
separation was merely nominal. After that time, the death of her father
and mother broke, in a great degree, the ties which had bound her to her
early home; for her brother, on whom the property devolved, had married
a lady, whose proud disposition suited but ill with Mrs Herbert's meek
spirit; and when, on the death of a relation, Mr Harrington became the
owner of a still finer estate in another county, Emmerton was almost
deserted. It was true he returned to it occasionally, but his visits
were less and less frequent; and, although the steward and housekeeper
were ordered to keep it in complete repair, it was only as a place for
show, and because his pride would not permit him to sell or let an old
family residence.
All this was a great trial for Mrs Herbert, though, whilst Colonel
Herbert was with her, it was comparatively but little felt; but the
duties of his profession at last called him to a foreign land, and it
was then that she first knew the real loneliness of her situation, the
only alleviation being the society of her friends at the parsonage, and
the delight of receiving constant and cheerful letters from abroad. At
the period, however, just mentioned, when Amy was about twelve years of
age, the time appointed for Colonel Herbert's absence had expired; but
no news had been received from him for a considerable time. Post after
post arrived without letters from him. Friends came back from the
country to which he had been sent, but none brought intelligence of
him. Mrs Herbert's heart sank within her, the most sad forebodings took
possession of her mind, and even the company of Amy often served only
to increase her melancholy, as it reminded her more forcibly of the
probable failure of those visions of future happiness, in which she had
indulged when dwelling upon the prospect of her husband's return to his
native land, to spend the remainder of his days with her and with his
child.
Continued anxiety at length seriously affected Mrs Herbert's health; and
even Amy, young as she was, became sensible of it, and learned to look
eagerly for the daily post, in hopes that it might bring some letter
which would make her mother smile again as she had been used to do,
while she seldom expressed a wish to go to Emmerton, since it only added
to Mrs Herbert's depression, by reminding her of the absence of her
relations as well as of that of her husband. Still Amy did not fully
enter into the causes of her mother's uneasiness; and when she stationed
herself at the white garden-gate every morning to watch for the old
postman, it was with a feeling of expectation very different from the
nervous eagerness with which Mrs Herbert longed for his arrival.
"Here he is, mamma!" she exclaimed, joyously, as she ran to the
drawing-room window one lovely summer morning, after having waited
unusually long at the gate. "Here he is! just turning the corner of the
lane. Do let me go and meet him; I shall bring the letters much quicker
than he will, and there must be one from papa to-day."
Mrs Herbert half smiled as she kissed her child's forehead, and parted
her dark ringlets. "You may go, love," she said; and Amy waited to hear
no more. In a minute she was at the end of the lane, entreating the old
postman to give her the letters; but he was both deaf and obstinate,
and resolved that no one should have the honour of delivering them but
himself; and Amy, after repeatedly urging her request in vain, returned
disappointed to her mother. The delay had but increased Mrs Herbert's
painful anxiety; and when the man appeared with the letter--for there
was but one--she felt as if she had scarcely the power to take it from
him.
"It is from papa, I am sure," said Amy; but Mrs Herbert shook her head,
and her face became very pale as she saw the deep black edge. With a
trembling hand she tore open the letter; and Amy, seeing that something
unusual was the matter, looked earnestly in her face while she read.
For a moment her mother's countenance wore the appearance of intense
anguish, but it was soon succeeded by an expression of comparative
relief; and when she had concluded, although she was grave and
melancholy, it was evident that the news had not been what she so much
dreaded.
"Is it from papa?" asked Amy; "and is he quite well, and coming home
soon?"
"It is from your uncle Harrington, my dear," said Mrs Herbert: "he gives
me no information about your papa, and he writes in great distress."
"Why, why, mamma!" exclaimed Amy, eagerly; "does it make you unhappy
too?"
"Yes," said Mrs Herbert; "I must always be sad when I know that your
uncle is in affliction. You have lost your cousin Edward, Amy; he has
died quite suddenly, and," but here Mrs Herbert paused, for her voice
failed her. Amy endeavoured to comfort her; but it was not in her power
to stop the course of her mother's grief, and for a few minutes she
gave way to it without restraint; and then rousing herself, she said, "I
ought to be thankful that I have been spared a still greater trial; for,
though I can feel bitterly for my poor brother, it would have been far
worse if I had known Edward well; and one thing, Amy, which will give
you pleasure in the midst of all this sorrow is, that your uncle tells
me he intends coming to Emmerton immediately; and he begs me to go
there, and give orders for everything being prepared for them."
"To Emmerton, mamma!" exclaimed Amy, with delight, forgetting what had
given rise to this sudden plan. "Will they really come to Emmerton--my
uncle, and aunt, and all my cousins? Oh! you will look happy again,
then."
"I will try to do so, at least," said Mrs Herbert; "for it is only
selfishness to destroy your happiness, my dear child, by anxiety,
which you cannot understand. But, indeed, you must not expect any great
enjoyment at first; for your uncle's letter speaks of himself and all
the family as being in the greatest distress."
"Ah! but," said Amy, "when they come to Emmerton, they must be cheerful.
To be sure," she added, looking suddenly grave, "it is very sad to think
that Edward will not be with them; but then, mamma, I dare say he is
gone to heaven, so why should they be so very sorry?"
"Should not you be very sorry to part from me, Amy, if I were to die?
and yet I trust that when it shall please God that I should do so. He
will take me to heaven."
"Oh mamma! don't talk so," said Amy, her eyes filling with tears; "you
know I should be so miserable. I should die too."
"No, my love," replied Mrs Herbert, "I hope you would not die; for you
may always be happy whether I am with you or not, when you have God to
watch over you; but I wished to show you that you must not expect
other people to be less sorrowful than you would be yourself in such a
situation. Your cousins will, of course, be unhappy when they first come
to Emmerton."
"But when will it be?" asked Amy.
"Not till the week after next," answered Mrs Herbert; "for the house
must be made ready for them."
"Oh! such a long, long time!" sighed Amy. "There are five days to the
end of this week; and then will they come on the Monday week after?"
"They have not fixed the day, my dear, so you will try and wait
patiently, I know," said Mrs Herbert; "and now you must get your lessons
and read by yourself this morning, for I wish to be alone in my own
room."
This was not pleasant news to Amy, but she made no objection, and with
her book in her hand seated herself at the window. It was a harder
task to learn on that morning than she had ever before found it; for,
notwithstanding all her endeavours, some thoughts of Emmerton would
creep into her mind perpetually. First she fancied what rooms her
cousins would choose; then whether they would like the same that she
did; whether any of the old dark chambers would be used; and, above all,
whether her uncle would have prayers in the chapel every morning, and
fill it with his servants, so that she might really see it as she had
been told it used to be.
The very loveliness of the day only served to increase her distraction
of mind. The sunlight was glancing on the turf, the butterflies were
settling continually on the flowers by the window, and the birds were
singing gaily amongst the trees; and delightful as all this really was,
it only made Amy feel the stronger wish to be at that moment running
over the lawns at Emmerton, or standing by the side of the lake,
watching the swans and the other water-fowl as they sailed proudly along
on the bosom of the calm water.
"I shall never learn these tiresome lessons, mamma," she exclaimed, as
Mrs Herbert entered the room, after an absence of about a quarter of an
hour.
"And why not, my love? why should it be more difficult now than at any
other time?"
"Because I am so longing to be at Emmerton, mamma, and I cannot fix
my attention on them. Please let me leave off now, and I will learn a
double quantity to-morrow."
"No, Amy; that is a great mistake. To-morrow will have enough to do in
its own occupations, without burdening it with those of to-day. Besides,
my dear, this is just the opportunity for learning to do in a little
way what will be required of you perpetually during your whole life--to
conquer your own inclinations; you will be infinitely the happier for it
afterwards."
Amy looked as if she could not quite believe this, but she did not speak
in reply.
"You will endeavour, I am sure, my dear child," continued Mrs Herbert,
"if it is only to please me; you know my greatest wish is to teach you
to do what is right, without thinking of what is pleasant; so make
one more effort, and turn your face from the window, that you may have
nothing to divide your thoughts, and then the lessons will soon be
learned."
Mrs Herbert left the room; and Amy, obeying her directions, seated
herself with her back to the window, making a firm resolution in her
own mind that she would not look up from her book till her lessons were
ready; and when her mother reappeared, they were repeated without a
fault. Mrs Herbert's smile sufficiently repaid her for the exertion, and
with renewed pleasure she continued her usual morning occupations.
"And now, mamma," she exclaimed, as she finished her reading, "I may
think about Emmerton. Will you tell me if you are really going there
this afternoon?"
"We will set off immediately after dinner," replied Mrs Herbert; "and as
I cannot walk so far, I have sent to the parsonage to borrow Mr Walton's
carriage."
"Shall you stay all the afternoon, mamma? and will you let me hear all
you say to Mrs Bridget and Stephen?"
"I am afraid that will not interest you much, my dear," replied Mrs
Herbert, smiling; "but you deserve to have your wishes granted, to
reward you for your endeavours this morning. Was I not right in saying
that you would be far happier if you attended to your lessons first, and
thought of your amusements afterwards?"
"Ah! mamma," said Amy, "you know you are always right, and I am always
wrong; but then it does not signify so much while you are with me to
teach me."
Mrs Herbert sighed. "You must not look to me, my dear child: I cannot
keep you right. It is God alone who can do that, and He only knows how
long I may live to tell you what you ought to do. But do not look so
grave now, I did not mean to make you unhappy. You must get your bonnet
and take one turn with me in the shady walk, and by that time dinner
will be ready."