Sadly and wearily the hours lingered on till the day that had been fixed
for the funeral of the innocent child, who had ever been the loveliest
and most cherished of the family at Emmerton. It was a time of bitter
trial to all; even the servants sighed deeply as they missed the young
voice which had once sounded so gaily through the house, and felt that
the low rooms and the long winding passages were more gloomy, and
the old pictures and curiously-fashioned furniture more strange and
distasteful to them, when they were no longer brightened by the sunny
smile with which little Rose had never failed to greet them. There was
an unnatural oppression upon every heart, and few felt it more than
Amy: she had never before been a witness of real sorrow, and it was
like entering upon a new and painful state of existence; for every one
appeared altered--Frank especially, who had returned from Mr Dornford's
the day after the death of his little sister, was completely altered;
his spirits were entirely subdued; and his only satisfaction seemed
to be in wandering over the house, and collecting everything that had
belonged to Rose, but without any other object than that of looking at
and sighing over them. Amy longed to comfort him; but she did not know
what to say, for she was herself sharing in his grief, and there was a
gloom over her feelings which few other events could have produced.
At her own request, she had been taken by her mother to look at her
little cousin as she lay in her coffin; and although some who had felt
more of this world's sorrow might have gazed upon her with calmness, and
envied a rest so peaceful, Amy could see only that a change, far beyond
her comprehension, had passed over her, which made even the heavenly
beauty of her features appear awful. There was the same fair, open
forehead, the same long, silken eye-lashes, almost the same sweet smile
upon the lips, which she had often admired when Rose was sleeping; but
there was also the fixed, immovable expression which only death can
give; and when she kissed the pale, marble cheek, and shrank away,
alarmed at the icy coldness of its touch, it seemed impossible to
believe that a form so still should ever have been gifted with life, and
still more impossible to realise that she must herself one day be like
it.
Mrs Herbert said nothing at first, knowing that words could scarcely
add to the lesson which such a sight must bring; and Amy felt as if the
sound of her own voice would have been as irreverent in that chamber as
in the midst of the services of the church. Long and earnestly she gazed
upon the fair, motionless image of little Rose; and then, when she had
once more kissed her for the last time, Mrs Herbert gently said, "Amy,
shall we pray that our lives may be as innocent, and our deaths as
peaceful?" and, kneeling down, she repeated the prayer appointed by the
Church to be used at the burial of the dead, to console and warn the
living. The impression of those moments was never effaced from Amy's
mind; and when in after years she looked back with gratitude upon the
early release of Rose, the remembrance of her calm face often came
before her, as an earnest of the perfect peace which she trusted might
one day be granted to herself: even then, when the first feeling of awe
had subsided, it was a relief that she had seen her; for the thought of
death was no longer as dreadful as it had been, and she was able to talk
freely to her mother, and tell her of many difficulties and fears which
had often crossed her mind before, but which there had never seemed a
fitting opportunity to mention. Her only real comfort, indeed, during
these melancholy days, was in being with her father and mother; for
there was something in Miss Morton's manner which distressed and pained
her. She was as kind and affectionate as ever, but she did not appear
as anxious to have Amy with her as might have been expected. Sometimes,
even after having expressed a wish that she should remain with her,
she would suddenly stop in the midst of her conversation, and continue
silent for several minutes, and perhaps make some excuse in order to
send her away; and although this was always done in the most considerate
manner, yet Amy did not fail to notice it; and her heart became more
heavy as she thought that possibly, after all, Emily did not really care
for her very much, and that now little Rose was gone, she would never
love any one again.
Mrs Herbert understood the reason of this change of manner, but it could
not be explained to Amy. She saw that Emily, under the belief of being
soon compelled to leave Emmerton, was afraid of making Amy too necessary
to her happiness. She was desirous of learning to live without any great
objects of affection, fearing that she might rest on them rather than on
God; but though such a wish might be natural after the loss of so many
whom she had loved, Mrs Herbert knew that it would not be likely to
continue, when her mind returned to its natural state. She would then
see that it is God's will that we should have parents, and children, and
friends to love; and that if we have been grateful for such treasures,
and given the first place in our hearts to Him while we possessed them,
He will often, when one is taken from us, in mercy grant us another
to supply its place; and she would be able to acknowledge how great a
blessing it was that she had learned to love Amy before she had been
called to part from Rose.
As yet, however, Emily could feel nothing of this. She was indeed
resigned, and could spend hours in looking upon her darling Rose, and
thinking of her great happiness, and praying that God would make her fit
to dwell with her again; but the thought that she had loved her too well
was still predominant; and when her heart turned to Amy, and she was
conscious how much happiness might still be enjoyed on earth, she feared
to dwell upon the idea, and tried to believe that it would be possible
to live without having more than a common regard and interest for all
who had been kind to her.
The endeavour, however, did not succeed. Amy's winning manner, and
thoughtful attention, and warm affection, were irresistible; every hour
brought some proof of her love, and every hour Emily became more
and more aware how great would be the pain of leaving Emmerton. Yet,
believing that it must be endured, she resolved upon delaying the trial
only till she had taken the last, long farewell of little Rose, and then
to lose no time in making arrangements for her departure. But for Mrs
Herbert's presence, she would have hesitated at leaving Mrs Harrington
whilst so ill; but the exertion which was now so much required, had
rather roused Mrs Herbert, and given her increased strength and energy,
than overpowered her; and Emily felt that her own health must suffer, if
she were to continue much longer with so great a pressure upon her mind.
The only friend with whom she could reside till another situation was
obtained was her former governess; for the aunt who had been the means
of placing her with Mrs Harrington was living abroad: and when once
her determination was fixed, she lost no time in writing to claim the
fulfilment of the promise of receiving her, and to beg that her friend
would exert herself to find some family where she might be admitted as a
governess, for the position she held at Emmerton it would be impossible
to occupy again. The letter was written and sent, yet Emily could not
summon courage to mention it to Mrs Herbert. The shadow of comfort
seemed still left whilst her determination remained secret in her own
mind--at least no one spoke of her departure openly, although it was
certain that Mrs Herbert must really know that it was intended, from the
manner in which it had frequently been implied in their conversations.
Dora came to her frequently, and Margaret sent a request that she might
speak to her soon; but Emily dreaded and avoided an interview which
must recall so much that was painful; and once when they met in Mrs
Harrington's room, though her manner showed how entirely she had
forgiven her, yet both felt relieved upon Margaret's being called away
immediately afterwards, so as to afford no opportunity for mentioning
the subject. It was the evening on which she was to look upon Rose for
the last time, and all her resolution was required to enable her to bear
the trial; but strength was granted to her then as it had been before;
and when it was over, she found a comfort which nothing earthly could
have afforded, in praying that God would enable her to give herself up
wholly to His service, and take her to Himself when her heart had been
made meet for His presence.