But there was a greater trial awaiting poor Amy's feelings, on that
evening, than any she could suffer from neglect. Tired with dancing, she
had seated herself in the most retired part of the room, and was
half hidden by the window-curtain, when Mrs Danvers and another lady
approached, and, without observing who was near, began to remark aloud
upon what was going on. At first Amy was amused; she supposed, from
their speaking so openly, that they had no wish for privacy, and all
they said was of so trifling a nature, and mentioned so good-naturedly,
that no pain could have been excited, even if it had been repeated
publicly.
The conversation continued for some time, and Amy, feeling weary of her
position, was wishing to move, when there was a general press towards
the door near which she was standing, and which led into the library,
where refreshments had been prepared; and as she stepped aside to make
room for others to pass on, it became necessary for her to remain where
she was till they were all gone. Mrs Danvers and her friend were nearly
in the same situation, and still continued talking, as if perfectly
careless whether they were overheard or not.
"Did you see that little girl," said Mrs Danvers, "who danced the last
quadrille with Frank Harrington?"
"Yes," was the reply; "I had not noticed her before all the evening. Who
is she?"
"A niece, I believe, of Mr Harrington's," said Mrs Danvers; "there
is nothing very remarkable about her, only she interests me from
circumstances."
"What circumstances?" inquired her friend.
"Her father is in India," answered Mrs Danvers, "and they have had no
letters for a long time; and though there has been some rumour of him
lately, and he may be returning home, it is very uncertain; and Mrs
Herbert is in such a dreadful state of anxiety in consequence, that she
is extremely ill; and if anything should happen to her, of course the
poor child will live here."
"She will have a comfortable home, at all events," observed her
companion.
Mrs Danvers looked grave, and replied, "It will be a very different
thing from what it is now. Mrs Harrington is so proud, and her
eldest girl so exactly like her, that it will be a state of miserable
dependence."
"But is there no hope for Mrs Herbert?"
"None at all, as far as I can understand. She has been getting worse and
worse for the last six months, and, in fact, I believe myself that she
is dying."
Amy heard the last words, and it seemed as if all power of motion or
utterance had been taken from her. For months she had felt at times a
vague fear that her mother might be worse than she would acknowledge;
but the interest of passing events had quickly dispelled her
apprehension, and she had gone on till that hour without allowing
herself to imagine that it could be actually possible; and now, in one
moment, the dreadful truth had flashed upon her mind--truth at least it
seemed to her, for it had been asserted so confidently, and by persons
so much her superiors, that she could not bring herself to doubt it. Her
mother's pale face, her uncle's anxious looks, his wish that a physician
should be consulted, all returned to her remembrance, and all confirmed
Mrs Danvers' words. Her senses nearly forsook her, her head grew giddy,
the lights, the people, the music, seemed to have passed away, and
the only thing of which she was sensible was a burthen of intolerable
misery. Even tears did not come to her relief; for she was stunned by
the suddenness of the shock, and, silent and motionless, she remained
unnoticed and unthought of till the company had passed into the library;
and then, with a sudden impulse to escape from the brilliant room and
the sound of gaiety, she ran up-stairs towards her mother's chamber.
Still, however, she had sufficient self-possession to feel that she
might be wrong to venture there suddenly; and passing the room, she
continued her way along the gallery, with but one wish--that of finding
some place where she might be undiscovered. The sound of footsteps only
quickened her movements, and, almost unconscious of her actions, she
opened the first door that presented itself, and found herself alone
in the chapel. The cold light of the moon was shining full into the
building, touching with its clear rays the deep moulding of the arches
and the rich tracery of the windows, and bringing out into an unnatural
distinctness the sculptured figure of the old Baron of Emmerton, whose
still features seemed to retain, even in death, the holy, humble spirit
which, it was said, had animated them in life. At another time Amy
might have felt frightened, but the one overpowering idea in her mind
prevented the entrance of every other, and there was a quietness and
holiness in the place, which in some degree restored her to herself, for
it brought vividly before her the remembrance of Him to whom it had been
dedicated, and who at that moment she knew was watching over her. She
had, however, but a few moments for reflection, when the door opened,
and some one entered the private gallery. Amy tried to hide herself, but
Miss Morton's voice in an instant gave her ease and comfort; and, unable
to speak, she threw herself upon her neck, and burst into tears.
"Amy! my dear, dear Amy!" exclaimed Miss Morton, "what can be the
meaning of this? Why are you here?"
Amy only replied by repeating the word "mamma," in a tone of such deep
misery, that Miss Morton's heart for the moment misgave her.
"What of your mamma?" she inquired. "Is she ill?"
The question only seemed to increase Amy's distress, and Emily became
alarmed. "Will you not try to be calm for my sake?" she said; "you
cannot tell how anxious you are making me."
"Is it true?" exclaimed Amy, almost gasping for breath; "why did you not
tell me before?"
"What should I have told you?" said Emily, feeling completely
bewildered. "I have known nothing."
"But mamma," continued Amy, "she is so very ill--they say she is, and
every one knows it but me;" and again her sobs became almost hysterical.
"This is some very great mistake, dearest," said Miss Morton; "you will,
I am sure, try to calm yourself, and listen to me. Mrs Herbert is not at
all worse than usual this evening."
"Ah! but Mrs Danvers said it," replied Amy.
"Said what?" asked Emily.
"She said," answered Amy, forcing herself to an unnatural composure,
"that papa, perhaps, would not come home, and that mamma was so very
ill; and she talked of my living here, and that I should be miserable:
but I should die--oh! I know I should die," she added, with a vehemence
which startled Miss Morton. "God would not let me live without them: do
you think He would?"
The tone in which this was said was almost too much for Emily's
firmness; for the trial which Amy dreaded, she had herself endured, and
she well remembered its bitterness. "My own dear Amy," she said, "you
must listen to me now, as you have often done before: you know that
I shall speak nothing but the truth to you. Your mamma is ill from
anxiety, but there is no reason to apprehend that anything is seriously
the matter with her. Dr Bailey has been here this evening."
"Has he?" exclaimed Amy. "Oh! why did you not tell me?"
"Because you were engaged at the time," replied Emily, "and I had no
idea you would be so anxious. He says that there is nothing really amiss
yet, that all she requires is rest for the spirits; and he has quite
relieved Mr Harrington's mind."
"Are you sure? are you quite sure?" asked Amy, heaving a deep sigh, as
if to free herself from the overwhelming weight which had oppressed her.
"Yes, indeed, I am sure," replied Emily; "of course, it is not for us to
speak positively as to what is to happen--it may be the will of God to
take her, or to take any one, at any moment; but according to our human
judgment there is nothing to fear."
"But you cannot be quite certain," said Amy, whilst the cloud, which had
partly passed away, seemed about to return; "and Mrs Danvers spoke as if
she were."
"Mrs Danvers can know nothing of the matter," answered Emily; "she has
seen very little of your mamma since she has been here; and you must
think of what Dr Bailey says, and try to be happy for the present."
But Amy could not be happy; she could not so easily overcome the shock
she had received; and again anxiously asked Emily whether Dr Bailey
really said that her mamma would get well.
"He thinks and hopes she will," replied Emily; "but no one can be
certain."
"But if she should not," said Amy, as she leant her head on Miss
Morton's shoulder, and her tears flowed afresh.
"If she should not," replied Emily, "would you not try to think of her
happiness, even if it were your sorrow?"
Amy tried to recover herself, but the effort was almost beyond her. "I
could not live without her," she said, in a broken voice.
"Yes," replied Emily, "you can--we all can learn to submit to whatever
is the will of God; and we can learn to think suffering a blessing, and
to thank Him for it even more than for joy; but you will not understand
this now."
"To live here," said Amy, following the course of her own thoughts.
"You must not think of it," replied Emily; "God may in mercy grant you
many years of happiness in your own home; but there is no place where
He is which may not be your home. Will you endeavour to think of this,
dearest? I know it is true," she added, in a low voice, "for I have no
home."
"Oh! if I could be like you," exclaimed Amy, earnestly, recalled for the
moment from the thought of her own sorrow.
"Do not wish that," said Emily; "but there is One whom we must all learn
to be like, and His life was but one continued scene of suffering. We
can never have to bear what He bore."
"I am very wicked," said Amy, "but I will try to think as you do, only
it is so hard."
"You need not make yourself unhappy now," replied Emily, "by dwelling on
a trial which may be far off. I cannot see any great cause for anxiety,
only it is well at times to think of sorrow, even in the midst of
happiness, that we may be the better prepared to meet it."
"I thought," said Amy, "that I should never be unhappy till I grew old."
"And so I thought once," replied Emily. "But, Amy, before we were either
of us conscious of existence, we were both dedicated to the Saviour
who died for us, and the sign of His suffering was marked upon our
foreheads: it would be worse than weakness to shrink from following His
footsteps, because He calls us to it early."
"And must I be miserable?" said Amy.
"No, never," answered Emily, eagerly; "misery is for those who cannot
feel that they have a Father in heaven, and therefore it is that when we
are too happy, and begin to forget Him, He sends us sorrow to recall us
to Himself."
"Mamma told me something like that once," said Amy, with a heavy sigh;
"but I did not think sorrow would come so soon."
"You must not fancy it is come, dearest," replied Emily; "and you must
not think, whatever happens, that you will be miserable. In this place,
least of all, because everything in a church reminds us that we have God
to watch over us, and our Saviour to love us, and holy angels to guard
us."
Amy raised her head, and for a few moments gazed in silence upon the
still solemn beauty of the chapel. "It is better to be here," she said,
at last, "than in the drawing-room with the lights and the music."
"You can feel so now," replied Emily, "because you are unhappy, and
when you have had more trials you will feel so always. When persons
have suffered much, and borne their afflictions with patience and
thankfulness, they become in a degree calm and composed, as that marble
figure beneath us, for their eyes are closed to the sights of the world,
and their hearts are raised continually to heaven. Only think how good
the saints and martyrs were of whom you have often read; it was trial
and suffering which made them so."
"Oh yes!" replied Amy; "but who can be like them?"
"We can," answered Emily, "if we really wish and try to be. When we were
baptized, you know, God gave us His Holy Spirit to enable us to obey
Him; and you know also that He will give it to us more and more every
day, if we only pray to Him. The greatest saint that ever lived could
not have had a higher strength than ours; and therefore, if they bore
their afflictions without murmuring, we can do the same."
Amy was silent, her eyes were fixed upon the marble monument, and she
seemed lost in thought. "May I go to mamma?" she said, at length, in a
calmer tone.
"I think," answered Emily, "that Mrs Herbert is asleep on the sofa in
her bedroom; at least Morris told me so just before I came up-stairs,
and perhaps you may disturb her."
"I must, indeed I must see her!" exclaimed Amy; "I do not want to speak,
only to look at her; and I will try to bear everything," she added,
earnestly, though the tears again filled her eyes as she spoke.
"I wish," said Emily, "you could have listened to Dr Bailey's opinion
yourself: I only heard it accidentally as I met him in the hall. He
seemed to think that if your papa came home soon, Mrs Herbert would get
well almost immediately."
"I do not think he will come now," said Amy; "it seems all changed, and
my uncle wishes us not to think about it."
Emily hardly knew what reply to make; she had so many fears upon the
subject herself, that she dared not give Amy the hope which she desired,
and could only again beg her to try and trust all things to the will of
God, and to feel that He whose child she was, would be her comfort in
every affliction.
"Will they miss me?" said Amy, as they left the gallery; "do you think
my aunt will ask where I am gone?" The question showed that her mind
had returned to something like its natural state, and Emily felt
considerably relieved.
"I will take care to make your excuse," she said, "if any observation
is made; but, dearest, you must promise me not to sit by yourself, and
dwell upon all the possible evils that may happen. I do not think you
will, for your mamma's sake; it will make her worse to see you unhappy."
"I would try for you," said Amy, "I would do anything--yes, anything in
all the world for you."
"Anything but believe that your mamma will get well," said Emily; "and
yet that is what I most wish you to do now."
Amy's only answer was an entreaty that she then would come to her again
as soon as she could, and sadly and noiselessly she stole into her
mother's room.
Mrs Herbert's sleep was calm as the sleep of a weary child; her
breathing was regular and gentle, and her face had lost the painful
expression of anxiety which was seldom absent from it at other times.
There was a slight tinge of colour upon her pale cheek, and almost a
smile upon her lips, and it appeared as if the rest of the mind, which
was denied to her waking life, had been mercifully granted to her in her
dreams. But Amy, as she stood by her side, did not notice this; she
saw only the pale, worn features, and the thin, delicate hand which was
resting on the book her mother had been reading, and every moment seemed
to force upon her more and more the truth of Mrs Danvers' words. Yet her
self-command did not again leave her; and seating herself on a low stool
by the sofa, she continued to watch and listen to every breath with
an intense anxiety, which made her insensible to all but the present
moment. Still Mrs Herbert slept, and still Amy watched, and by degrees
the first overpowering feeling diminished, and her thoughts returned to
the past--to her peaceful home, the cottage, which she had once almost
despised, with its sloping lawn and its beautiful flowers, and the
arbour where her happiest hours had been spent; to the quietness of her
morning lessons, and the enjoyment of her afternoon rambles; and, above
all, to the unwearying care which had guarded her from every evil, and
ministered to her hourly gratification; and as she remembered these
things, and then gazed upon her mother's face, it seemed as if every
feeling of affection which she had hitherto experienced had been but
cold and ungrateful--as if now, for the first time, she had known what
it was really to love her. Of Emmerton, too, she thought, and of her
aunt, and Dora, and Margaret, and the possibility that their home might
be hers for the future; and while pondering upon the idea, the very
comfort of the room in which she was sitting, with its rich crimson
curtains and thick carpet, and luxurious chairs, and the soft, mellow
light of the lamp burning on the table--all became oppressive. They had
made her envious and discontented when she was happy, and now they could
give her no comfort when she was sorrowful. What would all the riches
of the world be to her without her mother? On the possibility of
her father's return she could at first dwell but little; for it was
difficult to believe it very near, and if it were delayed it might be
too late to be of use, and a meeting under such circumstances would
be almost worse than a continued separation. But Amy's spirit was too
buoyant in its nature to remain long depressed by such forebodings;
there was a brighter side to the picture, and Miss Morton had entreated
her to think of it. Colonel Herbert might be on his voyage home, he
might even be in England at that very time, and then every one said her
mamma would recover. For one moment she believed that it might be so,
and her heart bounded with delight, though immediately afterwards
it sunk again into doubt and suspense; and at length, worn out with
anxiety, she laid her head against her mother's pillow, and slept also.
The distant sound of the music, and the hum of voices below, mingled
strangely with her sad thoughts, and her rest was far different from her
mother's. Visions of India, such as it had often been described to her,
of her father in health and happiness, and her mamma on her sick bed,
and of the cottage, and Emmerton, and her cousins, were blended together
in her dreams, now bringing before her scenes of sorrow and trial, and
then changing them suddenly into happiness. Sorrow indeed prevailed; yet
the hope which had cheered her before she slept was associated with it,
and even when her wandering fancy pictured most vividly some painful
trial, her father's image was at hand, to comfort and support her. Half
an hour passed away, and Amy's slumber still continued restless but
unbroken, whilst in her dream she was walking with her father on the
terrace at Emmerton, describing to him her mother's illness, and begging
him to go back with her to the cottage, when a strange, unusual sound
fell upon her ear; and as she turned to inquire from him the cause, she
awoke. The sound was apparently so real, that even when her recollection
was completely recovered, Amy could not entirely believe it was only a
dream, and she listened eagerly to discover what was passing below.
The music had ceased, but there did not seem to be any preparations for
departure, or the carriages would have been heard as they drove up
to the house; and yet there were distant sounds of bustle, doors were
opened and shut hastily, and voices were earnest in conversation,
while servants were moving quickly along the gallery. Amy thought and
wondered, and, without understanding her own ideas, grew excited and
anxious. She longed for her mother to wake, that she might listen also;
and at length, unable to remain quietly in her room, she walked softly
into the ante-room. It looked out upon the front entrance, and the
bright moonlight made everything appear almost as clear as day. Still
unable to comprehend what was going on, she went to the window; there
was a carriage at the door, and she wondered that she had not heard
it approach, but still no one was departing, and bags and luggage were
being removed from it. Amy looked on for a few moments, and then a
thought of unspeakable happiness passed across her mind, a thought so
overpowering that it was gone in the next instant. She felt that it
was only fancy; but it made her run to the door and again listen with
breathless earnestness. Foot-steps were heard upon the stairs; she
knew them well--they were her uncle's, and her spirit sickened with
disappointment; they came nearer--and then she felt sure some one else
was with him. It might be Dr Bailey returned again, or Mr Dornford, or
any one, yet Amy's heart beat till she could scarcely stand. More slowly
(so it appeared to her) than he had ever moved before, Mr Harrington
passed along the gallery, and she was just going to meet him when he
entered the room alone. Amy turned deadly pale, and did not speak;
but when she looked in her uncle's face, her vanished hope revived.
He asked, indeed, only how her mother was; but his voice was quick and
unnatural; there was a bright, restless glance in his eye, and a strange
smile upon his lips.
"Mamma is asleep," said Amy; "she has been asleep very long, and I slept
a little; but such a strange sound wakened me."
"Nonsense, child," said Mr Harrington; "are you sure it was not in your
dreams? What did you hear?"
"I don't know," replied Amy; "only it was so strange, and there is no
music now, and there is a carriage at the door."
"Why, you foolish child," said Mr Harrington, "you are dreaming still.
It is time for every one to go."
"Is there really nothing?" inquired Amy; and her very existence seemed
to depend upon the answer she received.
"What should there be?" said Mr Harrington. "Do you think your mamma
could see Dr Bailey again?"
"Again!" repeated Amy: "oh! then, she must be very ill."
"No, no," exclaimed Mr Harrington, "not ill; only he might as well see
her."
"But is he here?" asked Amy.
Mr Harrington did not answer; but he left the room, and immediately
returned, followed by another gentleman. Amy looked at him as he
entered, and for the first moment believed that he was a perfect
stranger; but, as he stood quietly in the door-way, with the light
of the lamp falling full on his face, she became conscious that every
feature was familiar to her. Again she looked, and then she doubted;
she seemed to know well the high forehead, the dark eye, and the grave
mouth; but the sallow complexion, the deep wrinkles, and the look of
age, completely bewildered her.
"Amy," said Mr Harrington, "why do you not speak?"
Amy's voice was almost choked as she endeavoured to reply.
"Oh uncle!" she exclaimed--"if I could but tell----," and she burst into
tears.
"This must not be," said the deep, rich voice of the stranger.
"Harrington, it is wrong to trifle with her, Amy, my own precious
child!"--and the next moment Amy was clasped in her father's arms.