The morning of Christmas-day was in every respect as bright and
beautiful as Amy could possibly have desired. The clear sky was
unclouded, and its brilliant blue was rendered only the more lovely from
its contrast with the leafless branches which were pencilled against
it. The lawn glittered like a sheet of silver, and the dark hues of the
holly and the laurel exhibited in full perfection the richness of the
crimson berries, and the delicacy of the pure hoar-frost with which they
were covered. There was an elastic feeling in the air, which would have
given strength and refreshment even to the weary watcher by the bed of
sickness. All nature seemed to rejoice, and Amy awoke to rejoice also.
Too young to have anxiety for the future, or sorrow for the past, she
felt only that she was in the place she most delighted in, under the
care of the mother whose only wish was for her happiness, and surrounded
by all the means of enjoyment that wealth could give. True, the wealth
was not her own; but it was, at that moment, entirely devoted to her
comfort, and the present was too full of pleasure to leave any space for
envy and discontent. Even the remembrance of her father could not check
the gaiety of her spirit, for she had not yet learned to feel that
"hope deferred maketh the heart sick." Every day brought with it
the expectation of hearing from him; and when the expectation was
disappointed, there was left in its stead, not the wretchedness of
doubt, but the blessing of hope for the morrow.
Her first thought on that morning was given to her mother; the next to
her cousin Frank. He had arrived late the night before, so late, that
she had been only able to remark the mixture of delight at his return
home, and sad recollection of the one missing, who ought to have
welcomed him, which had been shown by all, and by none more than Dora;
and Mrs Herbert, unwilling to be any restraint upon them, had sent Amy
to bed, and soon after retired herself.
This had been rather disappointing; but Amy had satisfied herself that
he seemed very lively, and was more like Margaret than Dora; and for
any further knowledge she was obliged to wait in patience till the
breakfast-hour. It was usual for her cousins to breakfast in the
schoolroom with Miss Morton; but on Christmas-day there was an exception
to almost every general rule, and they were all to be together, even
Miss Morton being admitted as one of the party, although the little
attention that was shown her, nothing indeed beyond the merest civility,
made it an occasion of far more pain than pleasure.
Frank, when he appeared, was in the highest possible spirit, full of
his school adventures, and the characters of his playfellows, and told
several stories in the regular school-boy slang, which Amy could not
at all understand; but his presence took off much of the stiffness and
restraint which every one else seemed to feel before Mrs Harrington;
and she herself occasionally relaxed into something like a smile as she
listened to his merry laugh. Amy had rather dreaded the society of
a boy--she had never been accustomed to it, and imagined he must be
boisterous and rude; but with all his spirits, Frank Harrington was
still so gentlemanly that she soon felt at ease.
"Will the carriage be wanted to go to church this morning?" said Mr
Harrington. "Amy, my dear, do you think your mamma will venture out this
cold weather?"
Amy was afraid not; she had been to her mamma's room, and had found
her so tired and unwell, that it was most probable she would not come
down-stairs till the middle of the day.
An expression of anxiety and disappointment came over Mr Harrington's
countenance. "That is bad news for Christmas-day," he said. "I would
give a great deal, Amy, to procure your dear mamma such a bright colour
as you have. I well remember the time when she would have walked to
Emmerton church and back twice, and laughed at the notion of being tired
afterwards."
"Every one in these days is grown weak and sickly," said Mrs Harrington,
in her usual severe manner; "that is, if they are not so really, they
fancy it."
Amy thought this might be meant for her mamma: and she would certainly
have said something in reply, but for the fear of being disrespectful.
Mr Harrington, however, had no such fear; and answered, that he should
be very glad to believe Mrs Herbert's illness imaginary, for it would
take a most painful load off his mind.
"But she is better, a great deal, than she was, uncle," said Amy; "she
walked several times round the shrubbery at the cottage, the day before
we came here, and did not seem at all tired afterwards."
"Several times round a shrubbery, Amy!" exclaimed Frank; "why that must
be a walk for a snail. What do you say to a walk of six miles and back
before breakfast? I knew a boy who did it just to buy a new cricket-bat;
and a fine scrape he got into when he was found out."
Amy looked all proper surprise at such a wonderful feat; and Frank,
delighted at finding a new auditor, kept her for the next quarter of
an hour, repeating his most extraordinary adventures, with such spirit,
that Amy at last began to think there would be more amusement in being
a boy, and going to a public school, than even in the possession of all
the splendour which usually formed the subject of her day-dreams. The
church bells prevented any further conversation, and she was glad to
escape from Frank's merriment for the enjoyment of a quiet walk with
Miss Morton, who had more than ordinary pleasure in being with her on
this morning, from having felt so much alone in the midst of a family
party. Christmas-day had never been to her what it is to many, for she
had never known the happiness of having all her relations about her; but
she could recollect the time when it was spent at home, with her father
and mother, and she sighed now to think how little the blessing had then
been valued.
Amy was walking with her cousins in the rectory garden, which adjoined
the churchyard, when Mr Walton came to her, after the conclusion of the
service, to inquire for her mamma.
"And your uncle, too, my dear," he said, "I want very much to see him;
what can have become of him?"
"There he is," said Amy, pointing to a group of persons standing by the
gate; "he is talking to Mr Dornford, and Frank is with him."
"He must introduce Frank to me," said Mr Walton. "Besides, I have
something particular to say to him. How did you tell me your mamma was
to-day?"
"Very weak and poorly," replied Amy; "but she seemed better when I left
her."
"Ah!" said Mr Walton, half muttering to himself; "I doubt if it will be
right; it may only excite a false hope--there will be no harm in delay."
"What?" exclaimed Amy, who just caught the last words, "delay, did you
say?--what delay?"
"Nothing, nothing," answered Mr Walton, hastily. "I wish your uncle
would not make me delay here; he does not generally speak to any
one when he leaves the church, but to-day he is having quite a
conversation."
Amy looked earnestly at Mr Walton, with the conviction that this was
only said to distract her attention; and an indefinable feeling of
mingled dread and curiosity took possession of her mind. But there was
nothing to satisfy her. The expression of Mr Walton's countenance was
cheerful as usual; and Amy, though very quick in perception, was not
quite old enough to perceive a trace of thoughtfulness beneath it. She
did notice, however, the quick, impatient glances which he cast towards
the churchyard gate, and the restlessness of his manner as he paced
up and down the little walk leading to it, venting his uneasiness by
kicking away the leaves and broken sticks lying in his path. In another
person it would not have been remarkable; but she was so accustomed to
see Mr Walton perfectly composed, that in an instant it awakened her
attention. The parting words were at last said; Mr Dornford walked away;
and Amy hoped that in a few minutes her curiosity might be set at rest.
But she was disappointed. Mr Walton eagerly seized her uncle's arm,
and drew him aside. A short conversation ensued; and then Mr Harrington
called out that they had better not wait for him, but walk home alone,
and he would follow. Amy really felt uneasy, and yet she could hardly
tell why, but her mamma's constant anxiety had in some degree infected
her; and anything like mystery immediately made her think of Colonel
Herbert. Miss Morton listened to her fears with interest, and did
her utmost to calm her mind, telling her that, in all probability, Mr
Walton's business was something connected with his parish, and that
it was unlikely, almost impossible, he could have heard anything from
India; but she advised her not to mention her notions to her mamma
till after her uncle's return, as it would only make her needlessly
uncomfortable; and if there were anything to be told, she would not be
kept long in suspense. Amy hearkened, and tried to believe; and had been
so used to depend upon the opinions of others, as to be almost persuaded
she had been fanciful without reason, while she readily promised to
say nothing of her anxiety; but she could not recover her usual happy
spirits; and when they reached Emmerton, instead of going immediately
to Mrs Herbert's room, she petitioned Miss Morton to walk once more with
her to the lodge gate, that they might see when her uncle arrived. He
waited, however, so long, that Amy herself grew weary of watching, and
was the first to propose returning to the house.
"You will be tired," she said to Miss Morton, "and then we shall not be
able to go and see Mrs Walton this afternoon. You know, you promised you
would, if you could manage it, because you did not like to wait behind
after church; and I should be so sorry to miss it, for we always used to
dine with her on Christmas-day; and she will be so vexed if she does not
see either mamma or me."
Miss Morton acknowledged herself cold, though not tired; and, at any
rate, it was useless to stand longer at the gate, for, after all, there
might be nothing to hear; and Amy repeated for the twentieth time,
that she did not really think there was anything, though, at the same
instant, she ran a few steps down the road, just to look once more round
the corner.
Mrs Herbert was dressed, and more comfortable, and had many questions to
ask, as to whether Amy had had a pleasant walk, whether she had spoken
to Mr Walton, and whether Mrs Walton found her rheumatism worse than
usual; and Amy, seated by the window, endeavoured to answer them all,
with her mind wandering to other things, when the sudden appearance of
Mr Walton and her uncle, on the terrace below, made her stop short
and exclaim, "There they are, both of them. I think there must be
something."
The next moment brought her to recollection; but there was no retracting
what had been said,--she was obliged to explain; and the change in her
mother's countenance, and the subdued tremulousness of her voice, soon
gave her reason to repent her incautiousness.
"This will not do," said Mrs Herbert, endeavouring to command
herself. "Amy, my love, tell your uncle I should wish to speak to him
immediately."
The message was, however, unnecessary. Mr Harrington had seen Amy at
the window, and now, pausing in his walk, begged to know if he might be
allowed to come up. "And Mr Walton is with me," he added. "May he come
too?"
"Yes, directly," was Amy's reply. Her mamma was just wishing to see them
both; and in a few minutes their steps were heard along the gallery.
Mrs Herbert turned very pale; and Amy stood by her, kissing her
forehead, and trying to soothe the agitation she had so inconsiderately
excited.
"It is quite unnatural," said Mr Walton, as he entered, "to pay you a
visit on Christmas-day;--a sad falling off from former times. I have
been half quarrelling with Mr Harrington for not allowing you to adhere
to the ancient fashion, and dine with us; but he declares I am very
unreasonable."
Mrs Herbert attempted to smile, but the effort was too great.
"You are feeling ill to-day, my dear Ellen?" said Mr Harrington, kindly,
taking her hand.
"No, not ill," replied Mrs Herbert, faintly; "that is, not worse than
usual, but anxious--very anxious. Oh Charles!" she added, looking
eagerly in her brother's face, as if wishing to read there all she
longed to know, "have you anything to tell me? In pity, do not keep me
in suspense."
The tone in which this was spoken prevented anything like further delay.
"It is nothing bad," replied Mr Harrington; "and yet it is not so
decidedly good as to allow one to build upon it. Mr Walton has had a
letter from a friend in India, in which he says, that the accounts of
the war have been greatly exaggerated; for, in fact, there has been
nothing more than an insurrection in one of the provinces, which is
now quelled; and there was a report that Colonel Herbert had joined his
regiment, which had been sent some way up the country."
Mrs Herbert did not speak in answer; she drew one long breath, as if her
mind had been relieved from a dreadful weight; a calm, sweet smile
of deep happiness passed across her yet beautiful features; and then,
covering her face with her hands, she silently blessed God for His great
mercy. "May I see the letter?" was the first question she asked when the
effect of the intelligence had a little subsided.
Mr Walton produced it instantly, saying that he had brought it for the
express purpose of showing it to her. "Not," he continued, "that there
is anything in it beyond what Mr Harrington has just told you. The
circumstance is mentioned in the light careless way in which we all
speak of things of no importance to ourselves, but which may, perhaps,
affect even the lives of our fellow-creatures. My friend Campbell had no
notion how deeply it would interest me."
Mrs Herbert seized the letter, and read the sentences again and again;
but, as Mr Walton had stated, there was nothing further to be gained
from them, though every word was examined and weighed; as yet, it was
only report; and with this Mrs Herbert was obliged to be contented. "I
see," she said, looking at her brother, who was evidently wishing, yet
afraid to speak, "you are anxious lest I should build too much upon
this; but I hope I shall not. Whatever trial may be in store, it would
be almost cruel to deprive me of a few weeks of hope."
"I am only afraid of the consequences of a disappointment," replied Mr
Harrington; "but I cannot give sermons to any one, especially to you,
so I shall leave you with Mr Walton; his advice will be much more
efficacious than mine."
"Here is a better sermon than any words!" said Mr Walton, as he patted
Amy's head, when her uncle was gone. "For your child's sake, you will
not, I am sure, allow either hope or fear to have too powerful an effect
upon you. I do not think either of you is well fitted to bear any great
excitement."
Amy's countenance certainly showed that Mr Walton's words were true;
every tinge of colour had faded from her cheek, and her bright dark
eyes were dimmed with tears, which she was using her utmost efforts to
repress. She had been silent, for she felt too much for words; her hope
was far more certain than her mother's, since it had not been so often
chilled by disappointment; and the dreams of happiness which filled her
mind were for the present without a cloud.
"Yes," said Mrs Herbert, in reply to Mr Walton's observation, "Amy is
indeed a motive for every exertion; it would be a hard thing to cause
her anxiety for both her parents."
Amy tried to speak; and hardly understanding her own feelings, was
almost ashamed to find that her tears were more ready than her smiles at
this moment of happiness. "Dear, dear mamma," she exclaimed, "we shall
never be anxious now. And you think he will be here soon?"
"We _hope_ everything that is delightful," said Mr Walton, "but we do
not _think certainly_ about anything; so, my dear child, you must be
contented as yet to go on just as you have done for the last twelve
months; and you must let me talk a little to your mamma alone. I am sure
she will never be able to reason calmly while that little earnest face
of yours is before her."
Amy felt slightly inclined to rebel, as it seemed almost wrong that she
should be sent away from her mother at such a time; but she had never
been accustomed to dispute Mr Walton's wishes; and left the room to make
Miss Morton and Dora acquainted with the intelligence her mother had
received.
Miss Morton's room was the first place she sought; and the next quarter
of an hour was spent in telling her of all that was to be done when
Colonel Herbert returned,--how they were to talk, and ride, and walk,
and the alterations that were to be made at the cottage, and the places
he was to take her to see; and Emily, though feeling that the foundation
of all this happiness was insecure, could not make up her mind to check
such simple, innocent hopes. The same things were again repeated to Dora
in the schoolroom; and Margaret would have had her share also, but
the indifferent tone in which she said, "Dear me! how strange!" when
informed of the tidings from India, quite chilled Amy's flow of spirits;
and she hastened away to find a more sympathising listener. Dora's
interest in her cousin, and all that concerned her, had lately so much
increased, that it was no effort to her to listen as long as Amy felt
inclined to talk; and she was sorry when Miss Morton appeared, to remind
her of the intended walk to the rectory, and to ask whether she still
wished to go.
"Oh yes!" said Amy, "if mamma does not care about my leaving her. I
do so long to see Mrs Walton now more than ever; but I will just go to
mamma's room and ask her."
Mrs Herbert's conversation with Mr Walton had been long and engrossing;
and this, added to the previous excitement, had so fatigued her, that
she was looking much worse than in the morning; and Amy resolved at
first not to mention the walk, and took up a book as if not wishing to
go out. But Mrs Herbert never forgot the pleasures of others, and would
not for an instant allow her to think of remaining at home, declaring
that rest and solitude would be better than any society, and that it
would be a much greater pleasure to hear an account of the visit on
their return than to keep her by her side during the whole afternoon.
Amy was only half-satisfied; but it was in vain to say that it was only
the thought of the morning, and she was very much pleased with her book,
and should be quite happy in reading it. Mrs Herbert insisted, and she
went.
Mrs Walton's disposition was more sanguine than her husband's. She
had seen less of the world, and had heard and known less of its
disappointments; and her fondness for Mrs Herbert made her seize upon
every prospect of comfort for her, so eagerly, that there was no fear of
Amy's hopes being again damped by any warning; and, perhaps, that hour's
visit was as full of delight to her as it was to the happy child, who,
seated at her feet, looked up with a face so innocent and gay, that
it seemed impossible to dread lest any evil should be near to mar
her enjoyment. There was also a charm to Mrs Walton in watching Miss
Morton's interest in her little companion. She had a quick perception of
character, and was peculiarly sensible of anything like selfishness of
feeling; and she had often observed that, when persons have suffered
much themselves, they seem unable to enter into the pleasures of others.
But affliction had produced a very different effect upon Emily Morton;
and now, though she had lost both her parents, had been obliged to
leave her home, and had no prospect for the future but one of painful
dependence, she still smiled as cheerfully, and spoke as hopefully to
Amy, as if no thought of the difference in their situations had ever
crossed her mind.
"You must take care of your dear mamma," were Mrs Walton's parting
words. "Colonel Herbert will look very blank if he returns to see the
pale cheek she has now; for his sake, tell her she must endeavour to get
strong."
Amy promised to be very watchful, and had no doubt that everything would
be right. But Mrs Walton was not so well satisfied, and drew Miss
Morton aside, to ask more particularly how Mrs Herbert had borne
the intelligence. Miss Morton could give her little information, but
undertook to send a note to the rectory in the evening to ease her mind;
though at the time the request was made Mrs Walton acknowledged that it
was apparently absurd to be so anxious.
"You would not wonder at it, however," she said, "if you knew all that
Mrs Herbert has been to me for many years; even during the lifetime of
my own child, she was almost equally dear to me, and since that great
loss, I have, felt as if she were left to be my special treasure. I need
not say to _you_ that she is deserving of all, and more than all, the
affection I can give."
"And her child is exactly similar to her," replied Miss Morton.
"Yes," said Mrs Walton; "how could the child of such parents be
different? There is but one thing in which she does not resemble her
mother--her disposition is naturally more lively and hopeful. It would
require, probably, very much affliction to destroy the buoyancy of her
spirits; and I would willingly pray that many years may pass before she
is so tried, unless it should be required for her good, for it would be
a bitter thing to lose the sound of her merry laugh, and the brightness
of her smile."
"It would make Emmerton very different to me," said Miss Morton. "As
I have often told you, I could hardly have supposed before, how much
interest and pleasure may be added to life by one so young;--a mere
child, as she really is, and yet with thoughtfulness and consideration
which make me fancy her much older. My most earnest wish is, that Rose
may one day be like her."
Amy's approach interrupted the conversation; and Mrs Walton parted
from Emily Morton with a warmer feeling of affection, from the entire
correspondence of their feelings towards her.
The happiness of Amy's mind was a peculiar blessing at Emmerton on that
day. It was Christmas-day; and every one knew that it was a time
for especial enjoyment, though, perhaps, few of the party could have
satisfactorily explained the reason why, and fewer still could have
entered into the joy which none but a Christian can feel on the
celebration of the Birth of their Redeemer. It was a duty to be
cheerful, and yet almost every one had a secret grief which prevented
them from being so. Mr and Mrs Harrington could not forget all that had
passed within the last twelvemonth; and Dora and Frank sighed many times
as they missed their favourite companion;--even Margaret, though she
had suffered much less than the others when Edward died, could not be
insensible to the change in the family, and wandered about the house
complaining that it was not at all what Christmas-day used to be; but
Amy had no such recollections to sadden her, and soon enlivened her
cousins by the influence of her own gaiety, notwithstanding the shade
which was occasionally cast over it, when Dora reminded her that by that
time on the following day she would probably be occupied in trying to
understand Mr Cunningham's unintelligible language.