That afternoon was one of perfect enjoyment to Amy. The drive in the
rector's carriage was an unusual treat, and the road through the forest
had never before seemed so beautiful; the light danced amongst the
trees, and sparkled on the gay primroses and harebells, and the deep
blue violets, which peeped from amongst the thick underwood. The rich
moss which covered the trunks of the old oak trees, was of a hue so
bright as to be surpassed only by the vivid green of the young leaves,
which had reached their full beauty, undimmed as yet by the scorching
rays of the summer's sun; and when at length they reached the park gate
of Emmerton, and drove under the long rows of oak and chestnuts, and by
the side of the clear silver lake, Amy's delight was unbounded. Several
months had passed since she had last been there, and the beauty of the
place was now increased by the thought that she should soon be able to
visit it constantly, and might, perhaps, at times, spend days, and even
weeks there with her cousins.
"Dear, dear mamma!" she exclaimed, as she jumped up in the carriage
to look at the lake, "do you think my uncle can be unhappy while he is
here?"
"Why should he not be, my love?" asked Mrs Herbert.
"Oh! because it is so beautiful, mamma," said Amy; "and it is all his
own, and he may go where he pleases, and do what he pleases, and you say
he has plenty of money: I am sure if I were he, I should have nothing to
wish for. If I lived at Emmerton, nothing could ever happen to vex me,
except," she added, looking grave, as she saw a tear in her mother's
eye, "except if anything were the matter with you: but here comes
Stephen down the avenue. I wonder what he will say when he hears that my
uncle is coming back?"
The steward approached the carriage as Amy spoke; he was a tall, hearty
man, of about seventy, with a step as firm, and a back as unbent, as
if he had numbered thirty years less. His features were very strongly
marked, and expressive of great intelligence, and might even have been
called handsome, though his complexion was completely tanned by age,
and many years' exposure to the variations of the weather. There was a
bright, happy look in his clear, gray eye, and a smile about his mouth,
and yet a person who had watched him narrowly might have seen the trace
of care on his brow; but it seemed as if it had only recently been
acquired, as if joyousness were the natural inmate of his breast, and
melancholy only its occasional visitant: and so, indeed, it was. Stephen
Browning had entered the service of Mrs Herbert's father when quite a
lad, and had risen from being a mere stable-boy to the higher offices
of groom and coachman; he had been the instructor of the young ladies
of the family in horsemanship, and of the young gentlemen in all their
boyish sports, and considered himself--and was indeed considered by
many others--as the most important personage about Emmerton Hall, always
excepting Mr Harrington.
During this period, his life had been a very happy one; and the pride
with which he watched the children as they grew up was scarcely inferior
to that of their parents. Even the death of old Mr Harrington did not in
any serious degree disturb his peace of mind, after the first shock was
over; for death, as he said, was the lot of all men, and 'twas no use
to grieve for him who was gone to happiness; and so Stephen consoled
himself for his loss, and still looked with delight upon the scenes he
had known from his childhood, and interested himself as much in the new
generation that had sprung up, as he had done in those who had long
been beyond his instruction. But a most bitter trial awaited him in the
removal of the family from Emmerton, and it was one for which he was
totally unprepared; the first intelligence was so astounding, that it
was some time before he could be induced to believe it; and when at last
the truth forced itself upon his mind, he sank into a state of listless
indifference, which was for a time in no slight degree alarming. He did,
however, recover from it; and at Mr Harrington's request consented
to remain at the Hall, and to take charge of it as steward; but his
occupations, his enjoyments, all seemed gone, and his only remaining
pleasure was to visit the cottage, and talk over the old days with Mrs
Herbert, and tell Amy stories of the feats of her uncles and aunts in
horsemanship, long before, as he said, she was ever thought of. For Mrs
Bridget, the housekeeper, who had only lived about twelve years in the
family, Stephen had an especial contempt. She was quite a new body, and
'twas no good talking to her; she could not remember the good old times
when the master was a young gentleman, and used to ride about the park
on his Shetland pony, and learn to play at cricket and leap-frog; and
then she dressed herself out smart, with gay ribands and silks, not
befitting the housekeeper of Emmerton Hall, who ought to keep to the
ancient fashion; and she would have young idle lads and lassies about
the place, which was never known in his days, when everything was kept
strict and in order; and, above all, she would never admit him and his
pipe into the house, but turned away when she saw it, as if she was too
fine a lady to bear what he knew she must have seen a hundred times in
her father's farm kitchen. Mrs Bridget, on her part, quite returned the
feeling; and though she acknowledged that Stephen might be very honest
and trustworthy, and she would not for the world say a word against any
one, yet she could not help hinting occasionally that he was growing
old, and would be better by his own fireside than attempting to give
directions which he could know nothing about; and certainly the air
with which she was accustomed to turn her back upon him, and tell him,
whenever he approached with his pipe, not to come near her with that
thing in his mouth, would have been quite sufficient to deter a less
adventurous person than Stephen from making a second attempt.
The steward's loud exclamation of "Sure, 'tis young madam and little
miss!" was heard when he was still at some distance from the carriage,
and he turned immediately to the house with the quickest step which his
age and gouty foot would allow, that he might be ready to receive them.
"Well, 'tis a strange sight, to be sure," he said, as he lifted Amy
from the carriage. "I thought Emmerton was never going to see any of
you again; and I have said to myself fifty times within the last month,
that, for certain, young madam couldn't have forgotten me, and my pretty
little miss, too, who used to be here so often."
"Ah, but Stephen," said Amy, "poor mamma cannot walk so far as she did,
and you know we have only the rector's carriage; but why don't you come
to see us?"
"The gout, the gout, Miss Amy, that's what keeps me; in the old days, I
could almost have run there and back in less than the hour, but 'tis all
changed--house, and garden, and servants, 'tis all alike--and little
it signifies what comes to me. But, madam," he added, turning to Mrs
Herbert, "you'll be for walking in and resting yourself, and Mrs Bridget
will attend upon you; she won't let me put foot within doors, if she can
help it, since I last threw some tobacco on her new gown, which was more
loss to me than to her, seeing 'twas all I had, and there was nobody to
send to get some more."
"I want to talk to you first, Stephen, for a few minutes," said Mrs
Herbert.
"Ah sure, ma'am," replied Stephen, "and 'twill do me good to listen; for
there's no one here to whom one can talk that will understand, seeing
they are all new,--all new;" and the old man's sigh almost amounted to a
groan.
"I have had a letter from your master to-day, Stephen," said Mrs
Herbert, fearing to impart too suddenly the death of his young
favourite, Edward.
"Have you, ma'am? and does he say he's well, and the young gentlemen and
ladies? 'tis the best I can hope to hear now."
"He does not write in good spirits, Stephen; he has been suffering a
great deal lately."
"Sure, ma'am, that's bad news; but what could any one expect but to be
ill, away from one's own place, and all the air that's natural to one?"
"Your master has not been ill himself, Stephen; but one of his
children."
"Not master Edward!" exclaimed the old man, taking alarm from Mrs
Herbert's countenance. No answer was given for a moment, and Stephen
turned to Amy for an explanation. "'Tis not master Edward; it can't be.
O Miss Amy! just speak."
"I will tell you, Stephen," said Mrs Herbert, recovering her composure.
"It will grieve you very much; but it is indeed poor Edward, who was
taken ill about a week since, and is now, I trust, gone to a happier
world."
The poor old steward's bronzed complexion became of an unnatural sallow
hue, and he leaned against the stone porch for support; but it seemed as
if the power of utterance were taken from him.
"Run into the house and fetch a glass of water, Amy," said Mrs Herbert;
and Amy, in extreme alarm, flew to obey her mother's order.
In a few moments she returned, followed by Mrs Bridget, a gaily-dressed,
sharp-visaged person of about forty, who forgot the last grievous
offence against her new gown when she heard Amy's frightened
exclamation, that dear old Stephen was so ill she thought he must be
dying. By this time, however, the colour had returned to his cheek,
and he was able to inquire more calmly the particulars of his young
favourite's illness. They were few, but very painful; for the disease,
which was inflammation of the lungs, brought on by a neglected cold, had
made most rapid progress, and he died about two days after he had first
been considered seriously ill. "But," said Mrs Herbert, after she had
answered the old man's various questions, "I have not told you yet,
Stephen, the only thing which I think is likely now to give you
pleasure: my brother talks of returning to Emmerton again to live."
"To live, ma'am!" exclaimed Stephen, starting back; "but it can't be
true. When the carriage drove away from this very place, now ten years
ago, I said to myself they were gone for ever; and so it has proved.
'Tis but a false hope, ma'am. The master will change his mind when he
begins to forget his grief."
"Ah, but Stephen," said Amy, taking his hand affectionately, "it is not
a false hope, though; for mamma heard all about it this morning, and
she has come now to tell you and Bridget to get the things in order, and
they are to be here the week after next. Think of that, Stephen. Won't
that make you happy?"
"Poor master Edward! poor master Edward!" sighed the old steward;
"'twould have been a joyful day, indeed, if he had been coming too. To
have looked upon his young face again would have added ten years to my
life; but God's will be done!"
"But, Stephen," said Amy, half disappointed, "you are not as much
pleased as I thought you would be."
"Ah, little Miss," replied Stephen, as he patted her shoulder, "you are
too young to know anything about sorrow; but I shall be glad by and by,
when I can think that it is true."
"Indeed, indeed, it is true," repeated Amy; "and mamma knows it."
"Amy is right, Stephen," said Mrs Herbert. "My brother writes me word
that Wayland Court is now become so melancholy to him, that he cannot
bear to live there, and he intends being at Emmerton as soon as the
necessary arrangements can be made."
"God be thanked for it!" exclaimed Stephen, clasping his hands together;
"and I shall go to my grave in peace, for the old times will be come
back again. But no, they won't, though," he added, whilst a bitter
recollection flashed upon his mind. "He will never be here again:" and
he brushed his hand across his eye to wipe away the tear which glistened
in it.
Mrs Bridget, half annoyed that Mrs Herbert should have chosen to
communicate so important a piece of intelligence to Stephen rather than
to herself, now came forward, and in a formal manner, and with a voice
which told there was a storm within, said, "I suppose, madam, my master
and mistress will communicate with me before they arrive?"
"I believe not, Bridget," replied Mrs Herbert; "they are in too much
distress to think about anything now; but they have left it all to me,
and I was wishing to ask you what would be wanting."
"Nothing, ma'am," said Bridget, drawing up her head rather proudly,
"nothing at all. Though I say it that shouldn't say it, the house is
just in as perfect order now as it was when my master went away. But I
should like to know if my mistress would choose to have the coverings
taken off the furniture in the great drawing-room; and there have been
a few breakages in the bedrooms; and Stephen tells me there is a pane
of glass out of the conservatory; and the fringe of the curtains in the
saloon was torn yesterday by the girl who was here cleaning the rooms, I
scolded her well for it, and she is coming again to-morrow to mend it."
"Well," said Mrs Herbert, stopping her, "all these things you can quite
well manage yourself, they are but trifles. You had better get all the
rooms in order, for I do not at all know which they will choose."
"And the chapel, mamma," said Amy, "won't Bridget have the chapel
cleaned? When I was last in it, there was such a heap of dust on the old
monument near the door."
Bridget looked annoyed. "The chapel is not my department, Miss Amy;
it was given in particular charge to Stephen's niece by Mrs Harrington
herself; but she is an idle trolloping girl, and always neglects.
Stephen," she added, turning to the old man, who appeared quite absorbed
in his own thoughts,--"Stephen, Miss Amy declares the chapel is dusty."
The steward started up like a man awakened from a dream; and catching
only the meaning of the last word of the sentence, exclaimed--"Dusty!
and whose fault is that, pray?"
"Whose, but that fine lady's your niece?" said Bridget, giving way to an
irritation of temper which she did not dare to exhibit to Mrs Herbert,
and delighted at having something to find fault with. "She is so busy
all day with her flounces and her furbelows, that she has no time to
think of her work."
Stephen, now fully alive to everything, looked steadily at Mrs Bridget
as she said this; and then scanning her from head to foot with a half
contemptuous smile, muttered--"Not so very different from other people,"
and walked away, though it was only a few paces, for his angry feelings
were very soon subdued.
"I should like to go over the house, Bridget," said Mrs Herbert; "and
after that, perhaps, you will get us some tea; for the evening is so
fine we need not return home till late."
"Dear mamma," said Amy, "may we have it in your own room? I should so
enjoy it! you know I like it better than any in the whole house."
Mrs Herbert made no objection; for although there were many melancholy
ideas connected with this room, yet she felt like Amy, that to her it
had more charms than any other.
It was in nearly the oldest part of the house, and had been occupied
by herself and her favourite sister from the time when she was about
fifteen, and was considered old enough to leave the schoolroom, and yet
too young to go into society. Her mother had fitted it up for them with
everything that could be required for their enjoyment; and here they had
been accustomed to spend their mornings together free from interruption,
for it was so far removed from the more modern buildings that even the
sounds of the visitors' carriages could scarcely reach them. The deep
oriel window looked out on the quietest and loveliest part of the
pleasure-ground; and a private door opening upon it, afforded them a
free and unobserved access to the garden; and many were the hours which
Mrs Herbert had spent with her sister Edith, reading together under
the shade of the large elm trees, with not a thought or wish beyond the
enjoyment of the present moment.
The room was now deserted. The piano was still in its accustomed place,
but its rich, full tone had become wiry and harsh by time. The table was
still standing by the window, but its clear polish had a cold, repulsive
appearance. There were no books, no work, no flowers. The chairs were
ranged in regular order against the empty bookshelves; the gay colours
of the curtains and ottomans were faded; and, instead of the bright
smile and the merry laugh which had once greeted Mrs Herbert, there was
nothing now to tell of the companion of her childhood but the picture
which hung over the fire-place.
But Mrs Herbert did not complain: she had early left a home of happiness
for one which was even more delightful to her; and her sister, who had
married likewise, was still in the possession of health and prosperity.
She had, therefore, much cause for thankfulness; and yet she never
entered this room and recollected the pleasures of her youth, without
a pang, which became the more painful when her husband's long-continued
absence gave her so great a cause of anxiety.
Amy's associations with what had generally been called the oriel room
were of a more cheerful character. She had never known it different
from what it now was; and to her it only brought the remembrance of many
happy hours spent there with her mother, in their occasional visits to
Emmerton, and particularly of various incidents in Mrs Herbert's
early life, which were almost sure to be recalled by some object or
circumstance connected with it. With a secret hope that something of
this kind would complete the pleasures of the day, she now followed
her mother through the silent, deserted chambers, while directions were
given for everything which might render them more comfortable; but at
last, wearied with listening, she left Mrs Herbert's side, and wandered
by herself into the pleasure-ground, till she became so tired that she
was glad to find her way back to the oriel room, where Mrs Bridget,
whose great favourite she was (and it was the only point on which
Bridget and Stephen agreed), had prepared the tea, and spread the table
with fresh fruit and cakes. This was not, to Amy, at all an unpleasing
sight; and when Mrs Herbert came in, she felt quite inclined to begin
her evening meal; but they had scarcely seated themselves when Amy
started back, exclaiming, "Oh mamma! pray look there. Did you ever see
such a wretched little object?"
Mrs Herbert turned to the window, and saw a miserable girl, with a pale,
haggard countenance and covered with rags, holding out her hand and
begging for charity.
"Dear mamma! do give her something," said Amy; "she looks so dreadfully
hungry."
"I will ask her a few questions first," replied Mrs Herbert, "and find
out where she comes from, and then we shall know what is best to be done
for her. I suppose she found her way into the pleasure-ground through
the back lane and the kitchen-garden."
Mrs Herbert opened the window; and, beckoning to the girl to approach,
made several inquiries as to her parents, her home, and her present
necessities. She seemed sadly frightened; but answered without
hesitation, that her father, who was a common labourer, had lately died,
leaving a wife and six children, of whom she was the eldest. It was her
mother's wish to return to her parish, thinking she should be better
provided for there than amongst strangers. She had set out on the
journey; but, being taken very ill, she had been obliged to stop at a
village about a mile and a half distant, where she had spent all her
money, and now, being totally destitute, she had sent her child to beg
for some assistance.
"What will you do for her, mamma?" whispered Amy.
"I must know a little more about her before I decide," replied Mrs
Herbert. "Is there no one in the village," she added, speaking to the
girl, "who has helped your mother?"
"The clergyman's lady has been very good to us, ma'am," was the reply;
"but the people of the house want mother to pay for the lodging, and she
has no money."
"It is a sad case, if it be true," said Mrs Herbert; "but I will make
some inquiries to-morrow; and now you shall take home something for your
supper; and I will write to the lady who has been so kind to you, and,
if you have spoken the truth, she will give your mother something for
me."
The girl curtsied, and seemed pleased and grateful; and Amy, whilst
her mother was writing a note, begged that she might take her round to
Bridget's room, and give her her supper before she returned home; and
when the girl had left the house with some bread and a bone of meat, Amy
went back to her own comfortable meal with a much higher sense of the
greatness of her daily blessings than she had had a quarter of an hour
before.
The idea, however, of so much poverty and suffering in some degree
diminished her enjoyment, and she sat for a while thoughtful and silent.
At length, turning suddenly to Mrs Herbert, she exclaimed-- "Mamma, it
is very strange that some people are so poor and others so rich!"
"It does seem so at first," replied Mrs Herbert; "and we can only
account for it by saying, that it is the will of God; that He alone
knows what is good for us all, and therefore He ordains different things
for different people; and though we consider poverty an evil, yet it
is often a very great good, and makes people think of Him and love Him,
when they would otherwise forget Him."
"But there is such a great, great difference in people," said Amy; "that
poor woman has not a farthing, and my uncle Harrington has thousands
a-year, you have told me."
"So he has," replied Mrs Herbert; "and yet, in a few years, they may
both, perhaps, be equally rich."
"Oh mamma! how can that be possible?" exclaimed Amy.
"It may be true to a certain extent, at this very moment, my dear. You
know what is meant by being an heir--having a right to certain property
or money, which is to be received at some future period. Now, it is more
than probable that your uncle with all his riches, and that poor woman
in the midst of her sufferings, have both the same expectations for the
future."
"Not on earth, mamma!" observed Amy.
"No, my love," replied Mrs Herbert; "but a person is not the less an
heir because he will not receive his inheritance until he is admitted to
heaven. I remember that I first learned to think upon this subject when
I was about two years younger than you are now."
"Do tell me how, mamma!" exclaimed Amy, her eyes sparkling with delight:
"it must be one of your stories about the time when you were a little
girl."
"It is not quite a story, Amy, and, at any rate, it is rather a grave
one; so, perhaps, we had better wait till you are quite in the humour."
"Oh! but I am quite in the humour always, mamma; and I think I like
grave stories best. Will it be a long one?"
"No," replied Mrs Herbert; "neither long nor amusing, and yet, perhaps,
it may interest you, as it may help to explain a subject on which you
have often heard me speak, and which it is very necessary you should
understand and think about.
"The time I am going to tell you of was, as I mentioned just now, when
I was about ten years old and your uncle Harrington one-and-twenty.
Persons at that age are, you know, considered capable of taking care of
their property; and the day of their attaining it is very often marked
by great rejoicings, in the case of those who have the expectation of
a large inheritance. This was your uncle's situation, and great
preparations were made for several weeks before, that the event might be
properly celebrated. Invitations were sent to all our friends, who were
then very numerous, and many came from a distance to spend some
days with us. A dinner was to be given to the tenants and the school
children; there were to be fireworks let off from the terrace in the
evening, and a band of music was engaged for the occasion;--and all
this was to do honour to my brother. You may imagine how much I was
interested in it, and how very delightful I thought it must be to be in
his place. I do not think I ever longed for anything in my whole life
so much as I did for the arrival of this day. I could talk of nothing
else,--I could think of nothing else; and I am afraid I gave my
governess, Miss Harwood, very much trouble for a whole week, I was
so inattentive to my lessons. At length it came--the long-wished-for
twenty-ninth of June; and certainly it was as lovely a day as I could
possibly have desired. I remember waking very early, and jumping out
of my bed to look at the weather. The sky was of a deep rich blue,
with only a faint mist over the distance, foretelling the heat of the
noonday. From my window I could see far over the country, and everything
that I could distinctly view was my father's property. I called to my
sister Edith, and made her come to the window, to enjoy the perfect
beauty of the morning; and I can well recollect saying to her, with a
half-envious sigh, 'Should you not like to be Charles, and to think
that all this was to be your own?' Your aunt, Amy, was of a very sweet,
contented disposition, and she checked me for the wish, and said that
she was thankful for her brother's blessings, but she could hardly
desire them for herself,--she was afraid she should not make a good
use of them. We stood for some time together; but said very little, for
there was such a perfect stillness reigning around that it almost seemed
as if it would be wrong to break it. Presently, however, we heard
the sound of distant music; it came nearer and nearer, and we soon
recognised the sweet voices of the village children, who had been sent
to pay this first mark of respect to their young master.
"I cannot describe how beautiful it sounded to me, though perhaps it
was only because I was in a state of such excitement, and so inclined
to find delight in everything; but I know that I listened to it with
breathless attention, and when I turned to look at Edith, there was a
tear in her eye, and I do not think that she, though so much calmer in
disposition, has ever forgotten, any more than myself, the tones of that
simple hymn."
"But, mamma," interrupted Amy, "the children never sing so beautifully
now?"
"I do not mean, my dear," replied Mrs Herbert, "that the music was
really so very much better than what I had usually heard, though I dare
say they had had a great deal of pains taken with them. But you will
find, as you grow older, that many things which are in themselves
common, will appear delightful to you if you are inclined to be
particularly happy; and so it was with me on that morning. Edith and
myself stayed so long at the window, even after the children's singing
was over, that we were only just dressed by the time the bell rang for
morning prayers, and when we entered the chapel, it was quite full. All
the servants of the family, with those of our numerous guests and a few
of my father's tenants, were ranged on the long oaken benches in the
aisle; the seats for the gentlemen were occupied by my father, my
brother, and their friends; and the ladies' gallery, in which we were,
was also crowded. I felt quite frightened when I went in, for many
of those present were strangers to me, having arrived late the night
before; but I took my place between Edith and Miss Harwood, and the
service began. It was read by my brother's tutor, a clergyman who
lived in the family; and when it was over, the party assembled in the
breakfast-room, but we were considered too young to join it, and we came
back to what was then the schoolroom--the very room in which we now are,
Amy--to be with Miss Harwood and the younger children till it should
be time for us to wait upon the poor people, who were to have a dinner
given them on the lawn, in front of the house. All that I could think of
was the grandeur of my brother's situation, and the pleasure of having
so many persons assembled to do honour to oneself. I could not fix my
attention to anything, but could only count the hours till two o'clock,
and run occasionally to the top of the great stair-case to look at what
was going on below, for preparations were making on a large scale
for the evening's entertainment; servants were constantly passing and
repassing, and I heard my brother's name repeated by almost every one.
At length Edith and I were told to go into the servants' hall, where
the school children were to meet, and to place them in order, that they
might walk regularly, two and two, to the ground where the dinner was
laid. This was to me most welcome news; for I was tired of being nearly
the only useless person in the midst of so much bustle, and we spent at
least a quarter of an hour endeavouring to make them understand which
were to go together, and how they were to behave, and distributing some
little coloured banners which we had amused ourselves with preparing for
the occasion; and when the great bell sounded, Edith and myself walked
before them to the ground. My father and his guests were assembled on
the terrace, and my brother stood by my father's side exactly in the
centre. The children and their parents, and the rest of the tenants,
were ranged at their several tables; and then, when the steward had
called for silence, they all rose, and my father spoke to them, in a
voice so clear that I think it must have been heard by every one. He
told them of the gratification it was to him to see them all before him,
and of the certainty he felt of their good-will towards him, with many
more expressions of the same kind; and then, taking my brother by the
hand, he led him forward to the edge of the terrace, and presented him
to them as his heir, and their future master, saying that he trusted he
would always prove himself their true friend; and that when he should
be laid in his grave, my brother might receive from them, and from their
children, the same marks of sincere attachment which they had always
shown to himself.
"A general burst of applause followed this speech of my father's, and
the words 'Long live the young master!' were heard from every lip; even
the children joined in the cry; and when the excitement had a little
subsided, my brother also spoke. He was extremely frightened, and I
could not hear all that he said; but I was told afterwards that he
thanked them for their reception of him, and added that he hoped it
would be very long before he should be called on to act as their master;
but that, when that time should arrive, it would be his one earnest
endeavour to follow his father's footsteps. As he concluded, another
loud cheer was given by the tenants, and just as it was dying away I
heard a voice behind me say, in a deep, suppressed tone, 'May God in
heaven bless him! and may he one day be the possessor of a far richer
inheritance!' I was quite startled at the solemnity with which the words
were spoken, and I did not at the moment understand their meaning. They
seemed to be quite involuntary, and were certainly not intended to be
overheard; and I turned quickly to see who was near. I was standing
between the two tables, and on my right hand was a young man whose face
I did not at all recollect. He appeared about my brother's age; but
instead of Charles' healthy complexion and strong limbs, he looked
completely worn by disease. There was not the slightest tinge of colour
in his cheeks; his eyes were deep sunk in his head, and even his lips
were of an ashy paleness, and the hand by which he supported himself,
as he leant rather than stood against the table, was more like that of
a skeleton than of a living being; his clothes were neat and clean,
but showed marks of great poverty; and, in fact, I had seldom seen such
indications of extreme sickness and want."
"Poor man!" exclaimed Amy; "was he really unhappy, mamma?"
"No, my love," replied Mrs Herbert. "I was just going to tell you that,
notwithstanding all these symptoms of suffering, he looked perfectly
contented, and there was even a smile upon his face. I watched him as he
seated himself after the speeches were ended, and saw that he was quite
exhausted; he ate little or nothing; and, before the dinner was over,
he was obliged to leave the ground, assisted by an elderly woman, whom
I knew very well, and who was in very distressed circumstances. I could
not help thinking, as he slowly walked away, of the vast difference
there was between him and my brother in everything; and the same
question arose in my mind which you asked me just now, Amy, 'Why God
should make some people rich and others poor?' but there was no one near
me then to answer it. The remainder of the afternoon was spent by us
in setting the village children to play, and resting ourselves in the
schoolroom. And when the heat of the day began to lessen, and we knew
that the company were at dinner, Miss Harwood proposed that we should go
to the top of the hill at the side of the house, which was our favourite
walk, where we should probably see a magnificent sunset, and return in
time to be dressed for the drawing-room.
"I was so restless, that it was a great relief to have some occupation
found for me, and I enjoyed the thought of the cool evening air after
the fatigue and sultriness of the morning; and I determined also that
I would, if I could manage it, get Miss Harwood alone, and ask her to
explain what had so puzzled me, and find out from her who the poor man
was who had left the table, for his face seemed constantly before me,
with its expression of great suffering, and yet of quiet happiness.
Edith and I set out together; but I soon left her with the others,
searching for wild flowers, and joined Miss Harwood. We easily
outstripped them, and reached the top of the hill long before they had
half filled their baskets. Miss Harwood always noticed any change in us,
and she asked me why I was so fond of getting away from the rest, and
whether I should not be much happier with them than with her. I had no
concealment from her any more than you have from me, Amy, and I told her
directly what I wanted to ask her, and how I had wondered to see that
poor man apparently so destitute when my brother had everything that the
world could give him. She gave me very much the same answer that I have
given you, that it was the will of God, and that He knew what was good
for us, and often sent us sufferings to teach us to think of Him; and
then she added that she knew the poor man well, and had been present
when he and my brother had both been declared heirs of a far richer
inheritance than any that my father had to bestow. I felt surprised;
and the exclamation I had heard in the morning, and which before I had
scarcely thought of, flashed upon my memory. I supposed Miss Harwood's
words must have some allusion to it, though I could not understand how;
and I eagerly asked why the poor man did not obtain any benefit from his
inheritance. 'He does obtain a great benefit from it at this moment,'
replied Miss Harwood, almost sadly; 'and I do not doubt that, in a very
short time, he will be admitted to possess at least a portion of it.'
You may imagine how desirous I was of having this mystery explained; but
when I looked at Miss Harwood, I saw that she was thinking of something
very serious, and a sudden notion of her meaning came into my mind. 'You
mean an inheritance in heaven?' I said, half doubting whether I might
not be wrong. A smile of pleasure passed across Miss Harwood's face as
she answered, 'Yes, Ellen, you are quite right; and I will tell you what
I meant when I said that he was made an heir of heaven. It is now many
years ago, I was staying at Emmerton, soon after your brother's birth,
and long before I thought of ever being a governess. On the day on which
he was baptized I went with your father, and several of his friends,
to the village church. I stood at the font with the godfathers and
his godmother (who, you know, are called sponsors), and I heard the
clergyman ask them some very solemn questions, which they were required
to answer in your brother's name. He then took him in his arms,
sprinkled him with water in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and
of the Holy Ghost, and marked on his forehead the sign of the cross;
and, giving him back to his nurse, he declared him to be one of that
society or set of persons who form what is called the Church, and to
whom God has promised His kingdom. From that moment,' continued Miss
Harwood, 'your brother was made a Christian and an heir of glory, such
as we cannot imagine; the sins of his original evil nature were forgiven
him, and a new spirit was implanted in him; and when I looked at him, as
he lay in his nurse's arms, I could not help thinking that it would be
happier for him if it were to please God to take him at once to Himself,
before he could by any sin of his own forfeit his innocence, and risk
the loss of his eternal inheritance. But,' she added, 'he was not the
only one who on that day received the promise of the kingdom of
heaven. Besides our own party, there stood by the font four of our poor
neighbours, some, indeed, of the poorest in the parish. One of them held
a sickly-looking infant, wrapped in a coarse kind of cloak; and when
Charles had been baptized, this child was given to the clergyman. The
same questions were asked, the same water was sprinkled upon him, the
same words were pronounced, the same sign was marked on his forehead,
and then he also was restored to his parents, a Christian, and an heir
of everlasting happiness. Notwithstanding the vast difference in their
outward circumstances, there was none in the eye of God; both had
received infinite blessings, both were engaged to keep the most solemn
promises.'
"'Your brother, Ellen,' continued Miss Harwood, 'has grown up in the
midst of every earthly luxury, and has to-day been declared heir to a
splendid property: the other child was bred in poverty, and accustomed
to the severest privations. He was early obliged to leave his home, and
work for his livelihood amongst strangers; and now he has returned to
his mother, who is a widow, and nearly destitute, completely broken
in health, and with no prospect before him but that of a speedy death.
Which do you think is the more to be envied?'
"I was silent, for I knew that I would far rather be my brother, the
possessor of health and riches, than a poor man in need of everything.
Do you think I was right, Amy?"
"If the poor man went to heaven, mamma," said Amy, "I suppose he would
have everything there that he could desire."
"Yes, my love," replied Mrs Herbert, "he would indeed; and yet, though I
knew this then as you do now, I could not easily forget all the respect
that I had seen shown to my brother that morning, and I did not like to
say anything that was not true.
"Miss Harwood waited for a few moments, and then said, 'Look, Ellen,
at the park, and the woods beneath us, and the pretty little village
beyond--you know it is all your father's--is it not very lovely?'
"'Yes!' I replied, surprised at the question.
"'But now look farther,' said Miss Harwood; 'do you not see what a vast
extent of country there is on the other side, stretching away till it
reaches the sea? The owner of all that property would be a much greater
person than even your father.'
"'Yes, indeed he would,' I said, as I turned in the direction to which
she pointed.
"'But now, Ellen, look once more,' said Miss Harwood, 'over the sea into
the sky--look at that mass of brilliant purple and golden clouds, behind
which the sun is now sinking; do you not see, far away to the right, a
pale bright star?--it is the only one which has yet appeared; but in
a short time the whole firmament will be studded with millions and
millions like it. Each of those stars is, as you well know, a world; and
we may believe infinitely more perfect than ours. If it be a great thing
to be the child of one who owns so beautiful an estate as your father,
must it not be a far greater to be the child of Him who not merely owns,
but who created those glorious worlds?'
"'But my brother,' I said, 'was made the child of God as well as that
poor man.'
"'Yes,' replied Miss Harwood; 'and we may hope that when it shall be the
will of God that he should die, he also may inherit the blessing which
has been promised him, but his trial is yet to come: he may be tempted
to do wrong, and forget God, and he may, therefore, lose it; but that
poor man's trial will in all probability soon be over. I know that he
has endeavoured to keep the vow made for him at his baptism, and trusts
only to the merits of his Saviour for salvation, and therefore I have
but little fear for him; but I do feel for your brother, because I know
he is in the midst of great temptations.'
"These words sounded very strangely to me,--it seemed as if Miss Harwood
were pitying Charles, instead of envying him, as I did; and I was going
to ask her some more questions, when Edith and my other sisters came
running towards us, telling us that they had gathered a most beautiful
nosegay, and wished now to return home. They began laughing at me
for running away from them; but they could not make me join in their
merriment, for I could only think of all that Miss Harwood had been
saying; and even when we reached the house, and were dressed for the
evening, I still remembered it.
"The large saloon was lighted up when we entered, and there were a great
many people assembled, all gaily dressed, and walking up and down whilst
the band was playing. My brother was noticed by every one, and was
evidently considered the chief person, and I felt that I should have
been happy to be him; but then Miss Harwood's words recurred to my mind,
and I became thoughtful; for I knew that although he might be the heir
of earthly grandeur, yet that, if he were to do wrong, and lose the
promise of heaven, he must be miserable. We were not allowed to stay
very long, Amy, and therefore I cannot give you a great description of
the ball. I only remember how very tired I was when I went to bed, and
that my last thoughts were of my conversation with Miss Harwood, and of
my brother and the poor man."
"Is that all, mamma?" said Amy.
"Yes, my dear," replied Airs Herbert; "you know I told you it was not a
very interesting story."
"I did not mean that, mamma," said Amy; "for I have liked it very much;
but I was thinking of the poor man. Did you never see him again?"
"Only once," replied Mrs Herbert; "for he was too ill, after that
day, to leave his home. It was one afternoon when I had been with Miss
Harwood into the village; and, as we were returning, we passed his
cottage door; he was seated at it, supported by pillows, and looking
even worse than on the day of the fete. Miss Harwood had a basket of
fruit for him, and she stopped and talked to him for some little time. I
cannot tell you all that passed, Amy, for I did not entirely understand
it myself, and some of it was too solemn to be repeated again; but I
well remember the peaceful expression of the poor man's countenance,
and that he said he would not exchange his prospect of happiness for
anything earth could give; he also mentioned my brother, and seemed to
feel a great interest for him. But there was nothing like envy at what
appeared to me so much more desirable a lot: he looked, and indeed
he was, perfectly contented; and a few days after, I was told by Miss
Harwood that he was dead."
"And what became of his mother?" asked Amy.
"She is living still in the village, and in the same cottage; for
although it is almost a hovel, she cannot afford anything more
comfortable: and I hardly think she would change it if she could; for
she has often said to me, that it was there her husband and her
child died, and she should never love any place so well. But you have
frequently seen her, my dear; do you not remember the little thatched
cottage next the blacksmith's shop, and the old woman we often notice
spinning at the door?"
"Oh yes," said Amy,--"old widow Watson; but she is very cheerful."
"She has the same cause for cheerfulness that her son had," replied Mrs
Herbert. "But now, Amy, do you understand from my story why I said that
the mother of the poor little ragged girl we saw just now has probably
as great a prospect of future happiness as your uncle Harrington?"
"Yes, mamma, if she has been baptized: but we are not sure of that."
"We may hope that she has been," replied her mother; "but that which I
am most desirous you should think of, is not so much the case of that
poor child as your own. You can have no doubt of your baptism, and you
may therefore feel quite certain of having had a promise made to you;
and when you grow older, and begin to know what the troubles of life
really are, you will be able to appreciate the blessing of having
something to hope for and expect beyond the pleasures of the world."
"Everybody who is grown up talks of having had a great deal of sorrow,
mamma," said Amy; "and so I suppose it is true: and sometimes I feel
quite frightened, and wish I could be always young; for I am very happy
now, and when my cousins come, I do not think I shall ever want anything
more."
Mrs Herbert looked rather grave as she answered,--"I am afraid, my dear,
that your cousins arrival may make a great change in many of your ideas.
They have been brought up very differently from you, and you will see
them dressed in fine clothes, and with servants to wait on them, and
carriages to drive about in; and then, perhaps, you will become envious
and discontented."
"Oh mamma!" exclaimed Amy, "how can you think so, when I shall have you
with me?"
"I wish I could teach you, my love, how much better it is to be the
child of God than to be my child," replied Mrs Herbert. "I should have
no fears for you then; for you would not care for the grandeur and
riches which you will see your cousins possess, and you would always be
happy whether I were with you or not."
"Mamma," said Amy, "you have often talked lately of my living without
you; but it makes me so very miserable to think of it, I wish you would
not mention it."
"You must not give way to this kind of feeling, my dear child," answered
her mother; "for we must bear whatever God thinks fit to appoint. But I
cannot talk any more now: you shall go into the garden till the carriage
is ready, and leave me alone, for I am sadly tired."
"I do not like to leave you," said Amy, "you look so pale and ill; and
you never used to do so. Oh, how I wish----," but here she stopped,
fearing lest the mention of her father's name might increase her
mother's grief.
"You need not be afraid," replied Mrs Herbert, with a half smile,
though she well knew what was uppermost in her child's mind; "all that I
require is rest and quiet."
Amy said no more, but placed a glass of water by her mother's side, and
left the room.
When she was gone, Mrs Herbert closed her eyes, and seemed as if
endeavouring to sleep; but the working of her forehead, and the pressure
of her lips, showed that there was no repose of the mind. Solitude only
brought before her more clearly the image of her husband in a distant
land,--perhaps ill and unhappy, it might be dying; but it was necessary
for her own health, and for Amy's happiness, that she should struggle
against these sad forebodings; and although a few tears at first rolled
slowly down her cheek, and she felt that it was almost impossible to
prevent herself from giving way to her grief, she did at length succeed
in turning her mind to the consideration of the watchful providence and
mercy of God; and by the time Amy returned with the announcement that
the carriage was ready, she had quite regained her tranquillity.
Stephen was at the door as they drove off, and bade them good-bye with
a happier look than was his wont; though, when Amy asked him if he were
not delighted at the thought of all the carriages and horses he should
soon see, he scarcely smiled as he answered, "Ah! yes, Miss Amy, 'twill
be very fine; but there will be no one now to ride the Shetland pony in
the park;" and he turned his head and walked quickly away. Mrs Bridget's
civilities, now that she knew how much depended on Mrs Herbert's good
opinion, were greater than usual; and many were the hopes she expressed
that everything had been satisfactory in the house, and that dear little
Miss Amy had liked the cake and strawberries. But Mrs Herbert was too
tired to listen long to her speeches, and expressed her approbation in
few words; and Amy, who liked Stephen a great deal better than Bridget,
declared that it was all quite delicious, and then ran after the old
steward to say good-bye once more.