It was happy for Emily Morton that the attention which Mrs Harrington's
situation demanded, when the fact of her loss forced itself upon
her mind, obliged her in some degree to forget the misery of her own
feelings. So much was required to be done, that she had no time to
realise the vast blank which that one moment had made in her existence;
and her chief anxiety now was to prevent Mrs Herbert from being
disturbed. This, however, was impossible. She had not, indeed, heard the
bell; but she soon learned all that had happened, and went directly to
Mrs Harrington's room to entreat that Emily would allow her to take
her place, and at least lie down for a few hours herself, even if sleep
were, as she feared, out of the question. But Emily's only support was
in exertion. To have been left alone in her own chamber, with everything
around to remind her of the treasure which had been taken from her,
would have been a trial so great that she could not suffer herself to
dwell upon it. "I must stay," she said; "it is all I can do; and I do
not need rest."
Mrs Herbert looked at her anxiously. "You do not know what you need just
now, my dear; but perhaps you are right; only," she added, as she kissed
Emily's burning forehead, and observed the trembling of her limbs, "I
have felt lately almost as if you were my eldest child; and you must
allow me a mother's authority."
Emily could not answer; but Mrs Herbert's affection, even in that hour
of bitterness, relieved the oppressive sense of desolation which had
before weighed her spirit to the earth; and when again left to herself,
she was able to dwell with greater composure upon the scene through
which she had just passed, and felt truly thankful that her prayers had
been heard, and that strength had been given her to support it.
The morning had dawned before Mrs Harrington was sufficiently recovered
to allow of her being left; and while Emily was still lingering, unable
to summon resolution to go to her own room, a gentle knock was heard at
the door, and Amy's voice asked permission to enter. "Mamma sent me,"
she said, as calmly as her agitation would allow. "She wishes you so
much to go to bed; and we have been getting my room ready for you,
that you may be near us, if you want anything. I am to be in mamma's
sitting-room, so that no one shall go to you unless you like it."
"You had better go," observed Mrs Harrington, faintly; "you must require
rest more than any one. Pray do not stay with me."
Emily hesitated. She thought that, if the effort she dreaded were made
at once, the most painful trial would be over. But Amy's pleading look
could not be resisted. "It has been my only comfort the last half hour,"
she continued, "to try and make all nice for you; and poor Dora has been
helping me; and Margaret sent her love to you, only she cannot bear to
see any one."
"You must go," insisted Mrs Harrington, "If Morris is left with me, I
shall not require any one else." And Emily did not wait any longer, for
she was beginning to suffer from the effects of all she had undergone.
The room had been so prepared by Amy's thoughtfulness, that it almost
looked as if Emily had inhabited it for weeks; and little as she then
cared for personal comfort, she yet felt unspeakably relieved by these
tokens of affection; for a child's love had lately been so associated
with every thought and feeling, that without it there was an aching void
in her heart which nothing else could fill.
Her rest, if such it could be called, was short and broken; but in her
half-waking intervals. Amy's face came before her with its expression of
peaceful innocence, as if to remind her that something was still left in
the world to which her affections might cling: and when she arose to the
full consciousness of sorrow, her first comfort was the thought that
it was God who had ordained her trial, and the second that He had
remembered her in her distress, by giving her such friends as she felt
Mrs Herbert and Amy to be.
The day passed slowly on, but Emily had neither the power nor the
inclination to leave her chamber. She was completely exhausted by the
night's fatigue; and Mrs Herbert entreated her on no account to make any
exertion, till her strength had been in some degree recruited. There
was not much indeed required, for Mrs Harrington had been considerably
refreshed by a few hours of sleep, but her spirit was entirely crushed
by the blow. She seldom spoke, or paid any attention to what was going
on, but sat gazing upon vacancy, or walking up and down the room,
unmindful of every effort that was made to rouse her. It was now
that Dora's energy and principle were fully called into action. The
selfishness which she had sometimes previously shown had been the result
rather of education than disposition; and she had lately struggled so
much against it, that, at a time when every feeling of sympathy and
affection was awakened, it seemed entirely to disappear. She attended
upon her mother, and talked to her father, and comforted Margaret,
without apparently once consulting her own wishes, though there were
moments when the recollection of Rose, or the sight of some book or
plaything which had belonged to her, brought such a pang to her heart,
that she longed to rush away and give vent to the misery of her feelings
alone.
Mrs Herbert would probably have suffered much from her exertions if it
had not been for Dora's assistance; but she was able in consequence to
spend the afternoon in her own room; and however she might sympathise
in the grief of her brother and his family, there was a happiness in
the knowledge that her husband was near, which nothing could entirely
destroy. Her chief anxiety was for Emily Morton. She knew that the first
bitterness of sorrow would in time be diminished, and that even Mrs
Harrington would probably soon recover from its present overpowering
effects; but to Emily the change it would cause must be lasting. There
was but little prospect of her continuing at Emmerton, now that her
principal occupation was taken from her; and Mrs Herbert shrunk from
the thought of her being sent again amongst strangers, to meet, perhaps,
with still greater scorn and neglect than she had yet experienced. She
had no home and but few friends, and might, therefore, be compelled to
go immediately into another situation, with the recollection of little
Rose weighing upon her spirit, and adding tenfold bitterness to the
trials she would probably be called on to encounter.
Mrs Herbert was thinking upon this subject, and endeavouring to form
some plan for Emily's comfort, when her husband entered. He had been
talking with Mr Harrington, and had left him, he hoped, more tranquil
and resigned.
"I am not so much afraid for him," said Mrs Herbert, "as for my sister.
A person of her disposition can seldom entirely recover from a sudden
shock of this nature."
"Perhaps," he replied, "it may not be intended that she should. One
hardly likes to think of the reason for which afflictions are sent to
others, because one may judge so wrongly; yet a deep, quiet, lasting
grief will sometimes, I am sure, win back our hearts to God when
everything else has failed."
"Poor Charlotte!" said Mrs Herbert; "it is a bitter discipline. And I
never see other people suffer without thinking that I may require it
next myself."
"Have you seen Miss Morton lately?" asked Colonel Herbert,
"I am afraid the change this will bring upon her will be greater than
upon any one, as far as outward circumstances go."
"Amy has been keeping watch upon her all day, and told me just now she
thought that she was trying to sleep again, so I did not like to disturb
her; and indeed I have only seen her twice since the morning, and then
only for a few minutes, for I saw she required rest and solitude more
than anything else."
"She will scarcely remain here now," said Colonel Herbert.
"Her chief employment and interest will be gone. And I suppose she would
not be happy even if Mrs Harrington wished her to continue."
"Charlotte will not wish it. She told me a short time since that her
principal reason for desiring to keep Miss Morton was on account of
little Rose, as Dora and Margaret did not like having her in the house,
and she felt herself that the position was an awkward one. She did not
choose her to be a companion; and she was not old enough to have any
authority."
"And what will become of her?" said Colonel Herbert.
"She will go into another situation as soon as possible; but the
difficulty will be to find one that will suit her."
"It will be a miserable life for her, I fear," he continued. "Some
people seem born to struggle against the hardships of the world; but she
is so very gentle that it appeals as if the smallest unkindness would
completely crush her."
"You do not know her," replied Mrs Herbert. "She can never be crushed
by anything, not even by the grief which she is now enduring. Her
principles are far too high."
Colonel Herbert paced the room thoughtfully for several minutes; and
then, suddenly stopping, he said, "Amy is very fond of Miss Morton, I
think."
"Yes; and the acquaintance has been of infinite service already. Amy is
very quick at discerning character, and notices everything; and I can
constantly see how the example of Miss Morton's patience and goodness
has strengthened her own right feelings. I quite dread to think of what
she will suffer when they are compelled to part."
"Are you quite sure that parting is necessary?" said Colonel Herbert.
"Only as you are quite sure yourself. Miss Morton will not wish to stay,
and my sister will not wish to keep her; and of course in such a case
she must go."
"Supposing--remember I am not expressing any wish upon the subject--but
supposing it were suggested to Miss Morton to return with us to the
cottage, and take your place as Amy's governess, would it meet your
wishes; and do you think she would like it?"
"Would you really agree to such a plan?" exclaimed Mrs Herbert. "It
crossed my own mind once, but I thought it would not please you; and
I could not bear to propose anything which it might give you pain to
refuse."
"Why should you imagine it would not please me?"
"Because it might interfere with your notions of domestic comfort to
have a stranger in the house. And then you cannot feel for Miss Morton
as I do."
"But I can feel for her because you do. And with regard to my notions of
domestic comfort, I should consider them of very minor importance, even
if Miss Morton were not a person to excite such deep interest, when
compared with the advantage her assistance would be to you in Amy's
education, and the pleasure it would be to Amy to have such a companion.
The first thing that gave me the idea, was the knowledge that you
required more relaxation than you were likely to give yourself, if you
considered that Amy's instruction depended entirely on your own energy."
"I do not think we should repent taking such a step," said Mrs Herbert.
"My own feeling for Emily is so sincere that I would make great
sacrifices for her comfort if they did not involve yours."
"I do not see why they should; though, even if they did, I hope I should
not hesitate. By arranging for Miss Morton to return with us, we may be
the means of giving her peace, and even happiness, for several years at
least. But in fact I do not feel that it would be any sacrifice now that
I know you would like it."
"It would be a very great relief to my mind," said Mrs Herbert. "If you
had seen her look of misery last night, you would have felt that it was
impossible to rest satisfied till something had been done for her."
"It will not do to decide upon it hastily, though," observed Colonel
Herbert. "Situated as we are, having known her family, and having a
personal interest in herself, whatever we decided on doing we should
be obliged to continue,--I mean that we could not allow her to leave us
merely on the ground of its not suiting our convenience that she should
remain. It would be cruel, after giving her the idea that we are really
her friends, to throw her again upon the mercy of strangers."
"Still," said Mrs Herbert, "I am not really inclined to hesitate; my
feelings are decidedly in favour of the plan; though for that very
reason I should wish to consider all the possible objections in their
strongest light."
"There will be no occasion to decide at once," said Colonel Herbert.
"Miss Morton will scarcely be in a state to think of anything for the
next few days; and by that time we shall be better able to judge whether
there is any serious obstacle in the way--anything that involves a
sacrifice of what is right, which, in fact, is all that is really to be
considered."
"People would laugh," said Mrs Herbert, "at the idea of its being
possible to act wrongly in taking an orphan girl into your family, with
the earnest wish of making her happy."
"Very likely they would; but I have seen enough of life to have
discovered that a hasty kindness is often quite as injurious as a hasty
unkindness. Mere feeling, however good, should never be allowed entirely
to guide our actions, especially where the happiness of another person
is so materially concerned as in the present case."
"I do not well see how it could lead us wrong now," replied Mrs Herbert.
"It might induce us to decide without considering the sacrifices which
will be required of us; and then when the time came for making them we
should be vexed and disappointed, and should probably show it, and so
destroy poor Miss Morton's comfort, or perhaps force her to leave us,
whereas, if we well weigh them beforehand, we shall be prepared, and
they will come as a matter of course."
"I believe you are right; and yet my first impulse, when you mentioned
the subject, was to go at once and name it to Emily; of course, I felt
in a moment it would be very absurd, if not really wrong; but it is so
hard to know that suffering exists, and not make some effort to relieve
it."
"Yes," replied Colonel Herbert; "and it is so hard to make up our minds
that suffering is good for those we love. But we must do it now; we must
bear to wait patiently till Miss Morton has formed her own plans, though
we know how much it will cost her to do it, and also to see every one
about us unhappy for many weeks, if not months, to come; no human power
can at present give them consolation."
"It is but a sad welcome for you," said Mrs Herbert, smiling through her
tears as she looked in her husband's face; "but I can be deeply thankful
that the trial did not come sooner; I could not have borne it then."
"We might have been too happy without it," he replied. "I half dreaded
that something might happen when I went with Amy to the cottage. To see
you looking as you did on that morning, so much more like your former
self than I could possibly have expected, and to discover in every word
she uttered how entirely my fondest wishes for her had been realised,
was greater happiness than it is usually permitted us to enjoy for any
length of time."
"It is strange now," said Mrs Herbert, "to remember the unclouded
pleasure I then felt; it is like endeavouring to realise the beauty of a
summer's day when we are in the midst of winter. But there are some who
seem to have had no summer to their lives--Miss Morton, for instance."
"Her summer may be to come, even on earth," replied Colonel Herbert; "at
least, if it should be arranged for her to be with us, I think we shall
agree in striving that it may be so; and if it should be otherwise
ordered, she is hardly a person to grieve for the few wintry hours of
this life, when she can look forward to the long summer's day beyond
it."
"It would be a great blessing," said Mrs Herbert, "to feel that we had
been the means of giving her comfort and relief; yet I fully see the
necessity of considering the subject well. And one thing we must be
careful about is the manner in which it is first mentioned to my brother
and Charlotte. They would not be likely to object, and yet they might
be annoyed if Emily proposed herself to leave them, and then came to us
immediately afterwards."
"Perhaps it would be best," observed Colonel Herbert, "to find out their
ideas first, and, if they are what we fancy, to suggest our wishes, and
gain their approbation before it is named to Miss Morton."
"Always remembering that we well weigh all the difficulties," said Mrs
Herbert. "I see your mind runs on just as fast as mine; you speak as if
you had no doubt what your decision would be."
"Perhaps I have not; however, it is as well to be reminded of
prudence; so, for the next day or two, we will forget that we have any
inclinations, and look only to the objections."
The entrance of Amy interrupted the conversation, which was not again
renewed till the evening; and by that time Mrs Herbert's feelings were
still more interested in carrying the plan into execution. She had spent
nearly an hour with Miss Morton, and had found her more composed than
she could have imagined possible; but it was evident, from many little
expressions, that Emily fully contemplated the necessity of her removal.
She spoke much of Mrs Herbert's kindness, and said that the remembrance
of it would be carried with her as one of her greatest consolations,
wherever it might please God to place her; and with timid hesitation she
asked whether Amy might be allowed at times to write to her. "Perhaps,"
she said, "your slight knowledge of me scarcely warrants my making the
request; but it is hard to part so suddenly from all that has given
pleasure to life; and my heart will still cling to Emmerton, and to
those who have rendered it so dear to me, even in a few short months."
Mrs Herbert longed to say that she trusted the parting might be
unnecessary; but she contented herself with assuring Emily that Amy
should write to her frequently, if they were separated, and expressing a
general hope that she might always remain in the neighbourhood.
"I am afraid," replied Emily, "that it would hardly be for my good. I
feel now as if to linger so near, to be so constantly reminded of
lost blessings, would unfit me for the duties of life. I must act; and
perhaps the greater my difficulties and my loneliness, the better it
may be for me in the end. Even now I have forced myself to consider and
decide upon the future, because I know that to sit alone and dwell upon
the past would destroy all my powers of exertion."
"But to see us occasionally," said Mrs Herbert, "would surely be a
comfort to you."
"In time it would," replied Emily, "but not now. To be within reach
of you, and yet to be separated, as I must be by circumstances, would
probably make me repine even more than I fear I am inclined to do at
present. And I am trying," she added, while her pale lips quivered, and
the tears rushed to her eyes, "to learn the lesson which it is the will
of God to teach me. I know how quickly my heart will fix itself upon
earthly objects."
"But you must not think, my dear," replied Mrs Herbert, "that it is
God's will that we should live without affection. Why should He
have bestowed such feelings upon us if they were not intended to be
exercised? If we give the first place to Him, He will never forbid us to
give the second to our fellow-creatures."
"I am afraid," said Emily, faintly. "I have thought before that I could
give up all for Him, and yet when He required it I have shrunk from the
sacrifice; and so it is now. I am not resigned as I ought to be; and I
must never again put myself within reach of the temptation of loving an
earthly being too well."
"You are speaking, my love, under the influence of an overstrained
feeling," answered Mrs Herbert. "I know you would not change what has
happened if the power were granted you at this instant; you would not
bring back that sweet child to the sufferings of a sinful world, even if
it were to give yourself years of happiness."
"No, no!" exclaimed Emily, eagerly. "I can and I do thank God that she
is safe with Him--not in words only, but from the very bottom of my
heart; and yet I may be afraid--it has always been so. Those whom I have
loved the best have ever been taken from me the first."
"Only we may not presume to decide why," said Mrs Herbert. "It may have
been for their good, quite as much as for your warning. And even now, if
the loss of a darling child should be the means of bringing those whose
happiness was wrapped up in her nearer to God, you would be the first to
acknowledge the greatness of the blessing, and to see that the object of
the trial might be principally their benefit. I do not mean to say," she
added, observing that Emily continued silent, "that we are not all in
danger of allowing our hearts to rest upon our earthly treasures; I am
sure, indeed, it is one of our greatest temptations; but still we must
not always think we have done so when they are taken from us; and,
especially, we must not shut ourselves up in silent misery, and refuse
the alleviations which God mercifully grants us."
"Perhaps," said Emily, "I could be more resigned, if I did not at times
fancy that I had been the cause of everything. If I had never left her,
many moments of self-reproach would be spared me. Not that I give way to
the idea, because I believe it is false: I was doing what I knew to be
my duty in going to the cottage; and the event was in the hands of God:
but vet the notion haunts me; and even when I turn away from it, it
still remains a load on my heart."
"And it will remain there, my dear, till the first misery of your
feelings has worn off, and you can see things in a truer light. It is
impossible to argue against it; or rather, no arguments which any person
can use will entirely satisfy you; but you must, indeed, force yourself
to turn away from it, or it will grow into a certainty, and then the
whole energy of your mind will be destroyed. If we once allow ourselves
to dwell too much upon the consequences even of our slightest actions,
we shall be quite unfitted for the duties of life."
"Then you do not think I was wrong?" said Emily.
"No, indeed, I do not. You went on an errand of kindness, where your
services were really required, and you left that dear child, as you
believed, in a place of safety with those who were certainly quite old
enough to have taken care of her during the few minutes of your absence.
Consider what your feelings would have been if you had neglected to go
to the cottage, and fatal consequences had been the result. You might
have reproached yourself then, perhaps justly; but you can have no cause
for it now. If any one has reason to be distressed, it is poor Margaret;
and I am afraid she is suffering very much."
"Have you seen her?" asked Emily,
"No," replied Mrs Herbert; "but Dora tells me she cannot comfort her at
all. I have sent several messages, and hope, by and by, she will let me
go to her."
"Will you say something from me," said Emily; "I hardly know what; but
only let her feel that I think of her."
"I wish it were possible to convince her how wrongly she has acted
towards you," answered Mrs Herbert. "I fear that what she is suffering
now will have but little real influence on her character. It is mere
feeling, and will pass away; for she will soon discover that she has
exaggerated her negligence, and then she will care but little about it."
"I am very sorry for her," said Emily; "and I could not bear to think
that she was made more miserable now on my account."
"But it would be for her good, my dear; and if I attempt to comfort
her by proving that she has over-estimated one fault, I shall certainly
endeavour to make her sorry for having thought so little of the other.
It will be useless to attempt it by and by; but now Dora says she really
feels for you, and therefore there may be some hope."
"You must not let her think that I remember it," replied Emily, "I wish
she could know how entirely I have forgiven it."
"I am not sure that I do wish it just now," replied Mrs Herbert. "To
be forgiven before we have acknowledged our offences makes us think too
lightly of them. When Margaret can see how utterly selfish her conduct
was, and grieve heartily for it, although no evil consequences have
followed, then it will be time to talk of forgiveness. And now, my dear,
I must leave you; but Amy shall come to you whenever you wish it."
"Shall I ever thank you enough?" said Emily.
"Do not talk of thanks," interrupted Mrs Herbert; "or, if you will, you
must listen to all I have to say of your kindness to Amy."
The substance of this conversation was repeated to Colonel Herbert in
the evening: and as there was now no doubt of Miss Morton's intentions,
the only thing that required to be decided was the practicability of her
residence at the cottage. Colonel Herbert insisted strongly upon every
objection, feeling in his own mind how much his inclinations led him the
contrary way; and having been the first to propose the plan, he was the
more anxious that Mrs Herbert should not afterwards see cause to repent
it. The expense, the responsibility, the interruption to their own
privacy, were all brought forward; but Mrs Herbert overruled everything;
and after an hour's earnest conversation, it was finally determined that
the subject should be named to Mr and Mrs Harrington as soon as they had
heard of Emily's intentions. "And then," said Colonel Herbert, with a
smile of heartfelt pleasure, "if Miss Morton will consent, we will see
whether the quiet of the cottage, with you for a companion, and Amy for
a pupil, will not in some degree restore her to happiness."
"If it should please God to grant it," replied Mrs Herbert, "I believe
it will be through Amy's means. I can see, even now, how she turns to
her for comfort. She half-smiled this afternoon when Amy came into the
room, and then checked herself, as if afraid to allow her thoughts to
dwell upon her."
"Who would not find comfort in Amy?" said Colonel Herbert. "I have often
tried to fancy what she would be like; but I could not have expected to
find her so entirely simple and sincere, with a mind in many respects so
far beyond her age."
"It has been a great relief to me to observe how little she has been
altered by the change of her life since she has been so much with her
cousins," answered Mrs Herbert. "It was my principal fear at first; but
she has had a much greater influence upon them than they have had upon
her."
"I suspect," replied her husband, "that we are not at all aware of
the real strength of principle in the mind of a child who has always
endeavoured to do right. Children injure themselves for their whole
lives by indulging in what are called trifling faults--a little vanity,
or a little selfishness, or a hastiness of temper. If they could only
be made to see the infinite importance of subduing these feelings early,
they would grow up with confirmed habits of goodness, which, by the
blessing of God, would never leave them, however they might be tempted
in after-life."
"We will hope that it may be so with Amy," said Mrs Herbert. "Certainly
she has begun betimes; and I think she will lead her cousins to follow
her example."
"Dora interests me very much," observed Colonel Herbert; "but Margaret I
have scarcely spoken to. Have you seen her lately?"
"No; but she promises to let me go to her the first thing to-morrow. She
dreads seeing her mother; and I rather think she will be glad to have me
to intercede for her."
"She need not be afraid; while Mrs Harrington remains in her present
state, she will not be likely to notice anything."
"To-morrow," said Mrs Herbert, "I shall endeavour to persuade my sister
to go and look once more upon that darling child. It will be a great
trial, but I think it may rouse her; and her countenance is now so
exquisitely peaceful and beautiful, that I should hope it might go far
towards reconciling her to her loss."
"The worst trial is yet to come, I fear," said Colonel Herbert. "There
is something still to rest upon whilst the outward form is left us, even
when the spirit is fled."
"I do not think that I quite agree with you. When everything is gone
that belonged to this world, we are able to feel more truly that the
spirit may still be with us. Perhaps the separation between ourselves
and little Rose may be far slighter than we accustom ourselves to
imagine."
"It may be so," said Colonel Herbert, thoughtfully, "though the Bible
does not give us any certainty upon the subject."
"It does not forbid us to think so; and at times it has been an
inexpressible comfort to me to feel that those whom I have loved might
still be near, though I could not see them; and I have always felt it
more after they were taken from my sight, and I could no longer look
upon them with the intense longing that they might return to be what
they once were."
"Whether true or not, the idea is an innocent one," said Colonel
Herbert; "I wish sincerely that it could be a comfort to your poor
sister."
"I think it not impossible," said Mrs Herbert, "that by and by Charlotte
will consent to see Mr Walton. You know he has been acquainted with her
from her childhood; and I am sure she has a very great respect for
him; and, as a clergyman, he could say so many things which no one else
would."
"I rather doubt it," replied her husband. "She is so little accustomed
to be unreserved, according to your account, that I can hardly imagine
she would allow any one to speak plainly, much less to comfort her."
"A month ago the case would have been very different," said Mrs Herbert;
"but this grief, I trust and believe, will have a very great effect.
Even Edward's death was not felt as much; at least it did not appear
so when she first arrived. I am not, however, going to talk to you any
longer, for I promised Amy, before she went to bed, that I would go to
Miss Morton, the last thing, to see that she was comfortable."
"Amy seemed worn out when she wished me good-night," said Colonel
Herbert; "her pale looks made me quite anxious."
"She has had a very trying day; and then, real sorrow is so new to
her, and she has been endeavouring so much to comfort every one, and
suffering so much at times herself (for she was very fond of little
Rose), that it is not strange she should look pale."
"I must go and see if she is asleep," said Colonel Herbert, as he stole
softly into the adjoining room.
Mrs Herbert followed, though almost inclined to find fault with him for
running the risk of awakening her.
But Amy's repose was too deep to be disturbed even by her father's kiss.
There was a tear on her cheek, which showed what her last thought had
been; but sleep had restored the peacefulness of an innocent mind; and
Colonel Herbert, as he looked at her with delight, prayed that it might
never forsake her.
Mrs Herbert's conversation with Margaret, the following day, was more
satisfactory than she had anticipated. At first, indeed, Margaret
refused to listen to any consolation. She declared that she had been the
sole cause of the accident; that her mother must consider her so; and
that it would be impossible ever again to know a happy moment. But
when her aunt, although fully allowing her negligence and selfishness,
pointed out how many other circumstances had combined to bring about
the event; without which her fault, however great, would probably have
produced no important consequences to any one but herself, Margaret
became calmer; and Mrs Herbert's fear then was, lest she should consider
herself perfectly free from blame. "I do not mean, my dear," she said,
"that you have no reason to reproach yourself, for selfishness and
neglect must always be serious offences in the eye of God; but what I
wish you to feel is, that if you have acted in the same manner on other
occasions, you have been equally guilty in His sight, though no one may
have known it but yourself."
"Every one is selfish," said Margaret; "I never thought it was very
wicked before."
"Every one is selfish, naturally," replied Mrs Herbert; "but we are sent
into the world to conquer our nature; and many persons are enabled to do
it almost entirely. You will not call Miss Morton selfish?"
"No," said Margaret, "I don't think she is; but she has been so unhappy
always, that I can never fancy she has had the same inclinations as
other people--I mean that she does not care for things in the same way;
and so it is not much trouble to her to give them up."
"Yes," observed Mrs Herbert, "she has had a great deal of suffering in
her short life; and I doubt whether any trial has been greater than the
present."
"I was afraid she would be very miserable," said Margaret. "Dora has
told me how ill she looks; and I am sorry for her."
There was a slight hesitation in Margaret's manner, as if she wished to
escape from the subject; but Mrs Herbert was not inclined to permit it
to drop. "I am sure you feel for her now, my dear," she said; "but you
could hardly have done so when you would have allowed her to be sent
away under a false impression, and at a time when, of all others, it
must have been most distressing."
The colour rushed to Margaret's cheek, but she answered quickly, "I did
not know what would happen then; and, besides, she did not go."
"But for what reason?" inquired Mrs Herbert; "not because you spoke for
her willingly. If you had known how much she suffered for a whole hour,
whilst obliged to make preparations, and fully believing that she must
go, I think you would be sorry for your conduct. She thought then, what
we know now would have been the case, that she never would see little
Rose again."
"Was she really so miserable?" said Margaret. "Indeed I did not intend
to make her so; and I should never have concealed anything if it had not
been for Lucy Cunningham."
"Miss Cunningham will, I hope, one day see how great her fault was; but,
my dear Margaret, her actions cannot alter yours. God will not admit
it as an excuse, that others have led us into evil; for we must each be
judged for ourselves."
"Does Emily Morton think much about it now?" said Margaret.
"No," replied her aunt; "she is so far from feeling anything like
unkindness, that I am certain she would make any sacrifice to do you
good and make you happy. But, my dear child, why will you always turn
your mind to what other people think and feel? It can make no difference
to you."
"I don't know," replied Margaret; "but it always seems that things are
worse when they are thought much of."
"But why?" continued Mrs Herbert. "It does not alter our conduct in
the eye of God. We may think of it now, and it may appear to us of
consequence; but you know, my love, that there must come a time when it
will be of no use to us to have borne a good character in the world, or
even to have been loved and admired by our friends, unless we have been
also really good in our own hearts."
Margaret turned rather pale, but made no reply; and Mrs Herbert went
on. "We do not know how soon the moment may arrive," she said; "and God
sends us such warnings as we have had now to remind us of it. It is a
great mercy that we may look upon that dear child, and feel perfectly
happy in the belief that she is now safe, and in the keeping of her
Saviour; but it might have been very different if the summons had been
sent to any of us who are older."
"But," said Margaret, "I fancied it was only grown-up people who could
be so very wicked. I am only thirteen, and I have never been confirmed."
"But you have been baptized," replied Mrs Herbert. "Before you could
even know the difference between good and evil, God gave you His Holy
Spirit to guide you in the right way; and then He placed you in a happy
home, with kind parents, and you were taught to read, and taken to
church, and kept out of the reach of the temptations of the world. Why
should it be less wicked to do wrong when we are young, and have so many
blessings and so much instruction, than when we are old and exposed to
every kind of evil?"
"My faults are only little ones," said Margaret.
"Your faults are the greatest you can commit, my love; because you have
been so educated that you would be ashamed to be guilty of greater ones;
and we may be quite sure, that whoever wilfully indulges in a trifling
fault when not tempted to do anything worse, would equally indulge a
greater one if the inducement were to be put before him. If, situated
as you are, you will not struggle against vanity, or selfishness, or
deceit, or ill-temper, you would not struggle against theft or falsehood
if you were the child of a poor man."
"But I cannot really be so wicked," said Margaret.
"Yes, indeed you can," replied her aunt. "When God requires of us the
account of our lives, we shall have to confess our advantages as well as
our offences; and if we commit what people in general call little sins,
when our advantages have been great, we must be as wicked as persons who
commit greater sins with fewer advantages."
"I do not think," said Margaret, "that I have been taught as much as
Amy."
"That is not the question, my dear. The real thing to ask ourselves is,
whether we have made the best use of the instruction we have had; not
whether we have had less than others. And one blessing--the first and
greatest of all--is given to each of us alike at our baptism; for we
are told, in the service which is then used, that God is pleased at that
time to regenerate us with His Holy Spirit; and if we chose to follow
His guidance, we should constantly be kept in the right way."
"I have heard Amy talk in that manner," said Margaret; "but indeed, aunt
Herbert, I never understood what she meant."
"Will you tell me, my dear, whether you have ever wished to do right?"
"Oh yes, very often; only it is so much trouble always to think about
it."
"And have you not often admired people whom you saw conquering their
evil dispositions, and now and then tried to imitate them, and really
felt pleasure in doing it?"
"Yes," replied Margaret, "sometimes."
"All these better feelings," continued Mrs Herbert, "were not your own
by nature; they were the work of that better spirit of which I have been
speaking: and if you had prayed to God to keep them in your heart, and
had endeavoured to act from them, you would have found them becoming
stronger and stronger every day; and then, instead of being inclined
to vanity and selfishness, you would be humble, and gentle, and
self-denying: and though you might often do wrong--because no one in
this world can ever entirely get rid of his evil nature--yet you would
be very sorry for it; and God, for the sake of your blessed Saviour,
would forgive you, when you prayed to Him, and He would make you every
day holier and happier; He would cause all the troubles of the world to
appear light to you; and when you had lived here as long as He knew that
it was necessary for your good, He would take you to heaven."
"And will it never be so now?" exclaimed Margaret, touched at last by
her aunt's words.
"Yes," said Mrs Herbert, "if you will begin at once: but, indeed,
my love, there must be no delay. If you are really sorry for having
offended God, there can be no doubt of His forgiveness; but it must
always be asked in our Saviour's name. It is only for His sake that
we have anything granted us; and the blessings bestowed at our baptism
would never have been ours if He had not died to purchase them."
"I think, aunt Herbert," said Margaret, with earnestness, "that I should
never have done wrong things if I had always had you to talk to me."
"Indeed, my love, you would. It is not any human power that can keep
us from sin. But you are very young; and if you were to begin at
once, praying to God to assist you, and really trying to please Him in
everything, you might, in time, become as good as those saints and holy
people of whom we read in the Bible."
"No, never!" exclaimed Margaret; "it would be quite impossible."
"They were but human beings," replied Mrs Herbert; "and some of them had
not even the same advantages that we have. It requires nothing but real
sincerity and trust in God."
"I should like to be as good as they were," said Margaret, "if----" and
here she paused.
"If you could be so without any trouble. But, my dear Margaret, consider
what your condition will be at the end of your life, if you continue in
this state of mind. How will you feel when you look back upon, perhaps,
a long life, and know that it has been entirely wasted, that you have
never really tried to serve God, and that you will probably never go to
heaven, because you would not take the trouble?"
"It cannot be necessary to be so very good," said Margaret.
"It is quite necessary to _try_ to be," answered Mrs Herbert. "God
will never accept anything but our whole hearts. You must remember our
Saviour's words, 'Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is
in heaven is perfect.' Certainly this must mean that we are to be what
you call _very good_."
"But," said Margaret, "I thought no one could be good enough to deserve
to go to heaven."
"No, indeed, they cannot. But supposing, Margaret, that a great prince
were to come to Emmerton and offer to adopt you as his child, and were
to promise that, if you would do everything he wished, he would, in
time, take you to his kingdom, and give you riches and honours beyond
all that you could possibly imagine, do you not see that, although you
never could have merited such kindness, though it would be a perfectly
free gift on his part, yet that, if you refused to obey, you would
justly deserve to lose it?"
Margaret assented; but she did not seem entirely to understand what
was intended, and Mrs Herbert continued: "This is exactly the case with
ourselves, my dear. God gives us all the promise of heaven, for the
sake of our Saviour, when we are baptized; but He also requires that we
should obey Him; and therefore, if we neglect to do so, the consequences
must be our own eternal misery."
"I don't mean," said Margaret, "that I would not try to be good at all;
but that I don't think it can be necessary to be like the saints and
people who shut themselves up, and never saw any one."
Mrs Herbert half smiled as she replied, "Certainly God does not require
that we should all live exactly the same lives as the persons you
mention--He does not command us all to leave our homes and go to
deserts; but it is possible to have the same tempers and dispositions as
the saints, though we may live in our own families."
"How can we set about being so good?" asked Margaret.
"First of all," replied her aunt, "we must pray to God to give us the
will; and when we have that, half our difficulty will be over. It is
seldom really hard to us to do what we earnestly desire; even things
which seemed quite impossible have been accomplished by a real
earnestness of purpose. There is a story told of a man whose father from
extravagance had brought his family to great poverty, and who, when
he became of age, instead of being possessed of large estates, was
absolutely penniless. He was standing one day upon the top of a very
high hill, looking over a vast extent of country that had belonged to
his ancestors, and which, but for his father's folly, would have been
his, when the idea entered his mind that it would be possible by his
own exertions to recover all that had been lost. From that moment he
resolved that he would never rest till he had achieved his wishes. He
worked by night and by day, he gave himself no rest and no amusement;
and at length he succeeded, and the estate was his. And though the
end of the story is a very sad one, and shows us the sin and folly of
setting our hearts on earthly objects,--for we are told that the poor
man became from habit a miser as soon as he gained his end,--yet we may
learn from it how much is in the power of persons who are really and
sincerely in earnest."
"I think I could have felt like that man," said Margaret; "but I should
never care so much about being good."
"You would if you could once see how beautiful goodness is," replied
her aunt; "if an angel were to be always at your side, you would long to
resemble him."
"Oh yes!" said Margaret; "but that is not possible; and every one I
see is much the same as I am; only Amy and Miss Morton perhaps are
different."
"But you can read your Bible," answered Mrs Herbert; "and you can see
there how holy, and merciful, and gentle our Saviour was. His perfect
purity is set before us to excite our longings to obtain it, as the
estates of that poor man were set before him. It is the image of that
holiness which we should have possessed if Adam had never sinned; and
if we had but equal resolution, we may have equal success; not, indeed,
entirely in this world, because we still must carry about with us an
evil nature, but in a far greater degree than we are at all apt to
imagine."
"Did you ever know any one who was so very good?" asked Margaret.
"Yes," replied Mrs Herbert; "and I have watched by their death-beds,
and witnessed their peace and happiness in the midst of the most severe
sufferings. I think, Margaret, if you had ever seen a real Christian
die, you would long to be like them."
"Should I?" said Margaret, thoughtfully. "I never saw any one die yet;
but poor Edward was always good; and they said he was quite happy."
"Yes," replied her aunt; "and if he were happy then, when lying on a
sick-bed, how much more happy must he be now! I know you would wish to
go to him."
"And Rose," exclaimed Margaret, bursting into tears. "Oh, aunt Herbert,
do you think I shall ever see her again?"
"I am sure you will, my dear child, if you will only pray to God to make
you good and holy, and fit for the home to which He has taken her. Will
you begin at once, and never neglect your prayers, and try with all your
heart to attend to them, and not allow your thoughts to wander? and will
you recollect how very many wrong things you have done, and ask Him to
forgive you for your Saviour's sake? And then will you endeavour, in
every little trifling thing, to give up your own will, and think only of
what is right?"
"I will try," answered Margaret.
"If you try," said Mrs Herbert, "not trusting to yourself at all, but
praying to God constantly to help you, and give you His Holy Spirit,
you may be quite sure of succeeding. Only you must remember that it is
absolutely necessary to try very much, and not give up the attempt
in despair because you find it difficult at first, and are constantly
falling back to your old habits; and especially you must not think it
sufficient to say your prayers only in the morning and evening; but you
must pray to God at all times, and in all places, whenever you are in
any danger of yielding to temptation. If you had prayed, I do not think
you would have acted as you did towards Miss Morton; you would have seen
the cruelty of wilfully adding to her anxiety; and you would have been
frightened at the thought of being deceitful."
"I think, now, it was very wicked," said Margaret, sighing deeply; "but
can I do anything to make up for it?"
"You cannot do anything to make amends to God," answered Mrs Herbert.
"When we have once sinned, no future goodness can wipe out the stain;
all that we can do is to trust that He will forgive us for our
Saviour's sake; but we can, in a certain degree, make amends to our
fellow-creatures; and the right thing for you now will be to acknowledge
to Miss Morton, when she is able to see you, how very great your fault
has been, and then to show, by every means in your power, that you are
anxious to consult her happiness."
"And will she forgive me, do you think?" asked Margaret,
"Why should you doubt it?" replied her aunt. "You have never known her
anything but affectionate, and kind, and forgetful of herself. I am sure
_she_ will forgive, because she will only hear your words, and see
your outward actions; but, my dear Margaret, it will be infinitely more
important that you should be forgiven by God, and He will look at the
heart."
"Indeed, indeed, I am sorry," exclaimed Margaret, "I do not think I
shall ever do such things again."
"I do most earnestly trust that you will not," said Mrs Herbert, "God
only knows the effect which the faults of our childhood have upon
our whole lives. You will not think, my love, because I have spoken
seriously, that I have not been sorry for all you have suffered."
"I like to hear what you say, aunt Herbert," replied Margaret; "but some
people I cannot endure, and I never listen to them."
"You must try and listen to everyone who wishes to do you good, my dear.
And now that we have talked together once, I hope we shall do so often;
and whenever you are in any difficulty in which I can help you, you
must remember that I am one of your nearest relations, and therefore, of
course, I shall love and take an interest in you."
"And will you ask mamma to forgive me?" said Margaret. "I am more afraid
of her anger than of any other person's."
"She is not in a state to think of anything now," replied Mrs Herbert;
"but I will certainly speak to her when I see she is able to listen; and
I trust you will remember what I said about Miss Morton."
Margaret promised that she would think of it often, and begged to see
her whenever she felt equal to it; and Mrs Herbert, after kissing
her affectionately, left her with a hope that the effects of the
conversation might be lasting.