It was about three weeks afterwards, during which time nothing
particular had occurred to vary Amy's life at Emmerton, that Margaret
received a second note from Miss Cunningham, which gave her much greater
vexation than the former. It was written more naturally, but the tone
was one of considerable annoyance.
Lord Rochford, at Mr Cunningham's request, had settled that the journey
to London should be postponed another year, as, upon consideration, he
thought Lucy too young to join in any amusements, and not sufficiently
advanced in her education to profit by masters. The French governess
was, therefore, to be dismissed, and another provided, who might be more
equal to instruct her.
"This is the most provoking part of the whole business," wrote Miss
Cunningham. "Madame was the kindest creature possible, and allowed me
to do just as I chose in everything; and now I shall be pestered from
morning till night by a stiff, formal, odious Englishwoman. And I must
say, Margaret, that it is a very great deal your doing; at least, I am
sure, if I had not gone to Emmerton, nothing of the kind would have been
thought of; and George has grown so disagreeable lately, he is not to be
endured."
"It would be strange," said Dora, when Margaret showed her the note,
"if, after all, we should go to London, now that Lucy is obliged to stay
at home."
Margaret was unprepared for the idea, for she had not been so much with
her father as Dora, and was, therefore, not aware of the conversation
that had lately passed between him and Mrs Herbert. Dora could not give
her any certain information; but she knew that a plan was in agitation
for some change; and she had overheard Colonel Herbert urging her father
to try London. The reason of this was, not simply that Mrs Harrington
required a different scene to relieve her spirits, but that it was also
considered advisable to have the benefit of further medical advice. She
had, indeed, partly recovered her interest in everyday occurrences,
but her nerves had been so much shaken, that but little discernment was
needed to discover how much she was altered. The necessary orders for
the arrangement of the house were given as usual, but she had entirely
lost the quick, restless activity which had formerly made her notice
even the minutest inattention to her wishes; and when her morning
occupations were over, she would sit abstracted and silent for hours,
having apparently neither the power nor the inclination to move. Every
noise startled, and every exertion was a trouble to her; her days were
gloomy, and her nights disturbed: and her husband could not but have
many anxious fears for the future, if she were to continue long in such
a state. The only thing which really seemed to rouse and comfort her was
the conversation of Mr Walton, whose visits at the Hall were now almost
of daily occurrence. At first she had allowed him in silence to talk
to Mrs Herbert; but, after a time, her interest in his observations was
awakened; and Mrs Herbert, perceiving it, took frequent opportunities of
leaving them together, and although the result of these interviews was
as yet but slightly apparent, they gave Mrs Herbert many sanguine hopes
that they might eventually be of infinite service.
As Mrs Harrington's health improved, Colonel Herbert became desirous of
returning to the cottage, for he longed to enter upon the plan of life
which he had so often pictured to himself; and he was afraid that,
whilst Mrs Herbert remained at Emmerton, she would continue to exert
herself far beyond her strength. It was impossible, also, that Miss
Morton should recover her spirits whilst in a place where everything
reminded her of little Rose; for although Amy was her constant
companion, her occupations were gone, and her feelings unsettled; and
Colonel Herbert, who watched her with interest, saw in her subdued,
melancholy countenance an additional inducement for hastening his
departure. Mrs Harrington strongly objected to the idea of going
to London, when the proposition was first made; but her husband's
uneasiness at length prevailed on her to consent, much to the distress
of Margaret, who could look forward to nothing but gloom in a journey
undertaken under such different circumstances from what she had
originally anticipated. "I wish," she said to Dora, when the plan was
mentioned as positively settled, "that my uncle had proposed anything
else; there might have been a little pleasure in going to some other
place, but there can be nothing but dulness and misery in London."
"Yes," said Dora; "I really think that sometimes having what we wish
is a punishment to us; not that I ever cared for London as you did,
Margaret; but I used to fancy that it would be nice to see all the
sights."
"I will never wish again," said Margaret; "it only makes one
disappointed when the time comes, I suppose now we shall go to a dull,
quiet part of the town, and not see any one."
"And have lessons," continued Dora, "without any person to help us, as
Emily would have done; and be engaged all day besides in attending upon
mamma."
Margaret remembered her conversation with Miss Cunningham, when she had
been threatened with almost precisely the same kind of life; and it
was impossible not to feel that what Dora had said might be true;
her punishment seemed, indeed, to have been sent in the partial
gratification of the wishes she had so wrongly indulged.
"How I envy Amy," she exclaimed. "Everything will be delightful to her,
and everything will be wretched to us."
"Amy deserves happiness," said Dora. "If we were to change places
to-morrow, we should not feel as she does."
"No," replied Margaret. "I don't think I should quite like living in
that small cottage, and having things so different from what they are
here; but she does not care about it."
"I think she used to do so," said Dora; "but I am sure she must have
seen lately that luxuries are no comfort when people are unhappy. It is
not because of the cottage being smaller that I think we should not be
happy if we lived there, but because we are not at all like Amy."
"Of course not," replied Margaret; "what two people in the world are
alike? And then we have been brought up so differently."
"A great many people are alike, though," said Dora; "my aunt, and uncle,
and Emily are, and Mr Walton, too; and I would rather think and feel as
they do than live in a palace."
"Would you?" said Margaret. "I am not sure about that."
"But indeed," replied Dora, "it must be better. I never thought about
it till I knew Amy; but now I am quite certain. All such persons seem to
carry about their happiness with them."
"Not always. I have seen Amy unhappy; and Emily Morton, we all know, has
been miserable."
"Yes," said Dora; "but I am sure it is not like our unhappiness. There
is always something to comfort them, because they think their troubles
are sent them, and that they shall be happy when they die, even if they
are ever so miserable now, I could bear anything if I did not think it
would last for ever."
"But how should it?" said Margaret. "You know everything will come to an
end at some time or other."
"Oh Margaret!" exclaimed her sister, "please don't talk so."
"Why not? it is true."
"No," replied Dora; "it cannot be true to say that troubles will come to
an end when we die, if we have not tried to do right. Amy put it into my
head to think about it one night, when I was with her as she was going
to bed. She said that sleep was like death, and perhaps we might never
wake again; and ever since that I have never gone to sleep without
remembering it; and sometimes I become so frightened."
"I should be frightened too," said Margaret, "if I thought about it; but
I never do; it is very disagreeable."
"Amy does not think it disagreeable," answered Dora. "She told me that
same night how happy she was when she went to bed; and that she thought
angels watched over her. Oh, how I wish I could be like her!"
"It makes me uncomfortable to think of it," said Margaret. "It must be
impossible!"
"I should be glad to try, though," replied Dora. "I never saw any one
else who made me wish it half as much. Almost all other good persons we
have known have been so much older: and I never believed it was possible
to be so good when one was so young."
"It will be very nice to have her here again when we come back from
London," said Margaret; "and Emily Morton, too. I could never bear this
place now if it were not for them."
At this instant Amy ran hastily into the room--evidently the bearer
of some news which she was anxious to communicate. "Do you know," she
exclaimed, "when you are going?"
"No," replied Dora. "Papa, I think, has written about a house, but he
has not had an answer."
"The answer is just come," continued Amy; "and there is some reason why
you must hasten, rather: so my uncle says. I believe you must take the
house from next Monday; and, therefore, you are all to leave Emmerton on
Tuesday, and to be in London on Wednesday."
"So very soon," said Dora, looking grave.
"I was in hopes you would like it," replied Amy. "I know you did not
wish it at first, but I fancied when the time came you really would be
glad. Frank is delighted, because my uncle says he shall stay a day or
two extra with you in London before he goes to school."
"And you will go back to the cottage," said Dora. "What a happy party
you will be!"
"Not Miss Morton," replied Amy; "I don't think she will smile heartily
for some time to come. But mamma wishes her to have everything just as
she likes: and we are to walk to the cottage this afternoon to give some
orders about her room, and then we are to call at the rectory."
"I should like to go with you," said Dora; "but mamma will want me at
home; there will be so many things to be done now, the time is so short.
Are you quite sure it is fixed?"
"I heard my uncle talking to papa about it; and he said some of the
servants were to go on Monday to have everything ready for you. But,
dear Margaret, don't look so very sad."
"I cannot help it," said Margaret, bursting into tears. "Two months ago
it would have given me such pleasure; and now it is so miserable."
"You will like it when you are there, I dare say," replied Amy.
"Oh no; how can I? What will there be that will be pleasant, with mamma
ill and in bad spirits, and not going out anywhere, or seeing any one?"
"Should you have liked it better if Miss Cunningham had been there at
the same time?" asked Amy.
"No," replied Margaret, almost indignantly. "It will never give me any
pleasure to be with her again. She does not care for me, or for any
one but herself; and she does nothing but blame me for everything that
happens that she does not like. I wish sincerely I had never seen or
heard of her; perhaps then all might have been as it used to be."
"It can do no good to think so now," observed Dora, sighing. "We had
better make the best of it all, and go and ask mamma what orders we are
to give to Morris."
"Will Susan Reynolds go too? It would be rather nice having both of
them," said Margaret.
"Susan Reynolds is not to stay with us," replied Dora. "There will
be nothing for her to do. Perhaps, Amy, my aunt will take her to the
cottage."
"No, she will not do that," answered Amy; "because I asked her about
it yesterday, and she said it would be an additional servant; and papa
would not like it: but Mrs Saville, I believe, has determined on taking
her; and mamma thinks Susan will be quite contented with her by and by,
though just now she is very unhappy at leaving Miss Morton."
"I am glad she is not going far away," said Dora. "I have liked her
lately a great deal better than Morris."
"I like her," observed Amy, "because she is so fond of Miss Morton,
and was so kind and thoughtful the other day, when she was in such
distress."
Margaret's face flushed upon hearing this allusion to the suffering of
which she had been the cause, for she could never think of it without
pain; and each day, as she became more alive to Emily's goodness, she
wondered more at her own selfishness. There was now, however, but little
time for reflection--so much was to be quickly arranged in consequence
of the hasty departure, that every moment was occupied: and Margaret
began to forget her sorrow in the bustle of preparation. The excitement
was of use also to Mrs Harrington. She gave her orders with something
like energy, and seemed to have recovered a portion of her former
quickness of discernment; yet Mrs Herbert remarked little instances of
consideration, which had before been quite foreign to her character.
She herself collected many things that had belonged to little Rose, and
giving them to Mrs Herbert, requested that they might be kept for
Miss Morton till after they were gone; and, on the day previous to the
journey, she called Emily to her room, and, after expressing how much
she felt for the affectionate care that had always been evinced to her
darling child, she put into her hands a gold locket, enclosing a bright
curl of chestnut hair, which she begged might be worn for the sake
of one who had been very precious to them both. Emily was more deeply
touched by the tone in which this was spoken than even by the action
itself. It told of a broken, humble spirit; and much as she longed to
comfort a mother's grief, she could not but rejoice in the effect that
it appeared likely to produce on her character.
"We shall see you again to-morrow, as we pass the cottage," said Mrs
Harrington, when Emily had warmly thanked her for this remembrance;
"Colonel Herbert insists upon our calling; but it will only be for a
moment, as we shall have a long day's journey before us."
"Perhaps," said Emily, "you would allow me to remain here to-night. I
might be able to assist you; and it would be a pleasure to me to think
that my last evening at Emmerton had been a useful one."
But Mrs Harrington would on no account listen to the proposal. She saw
that Emily was feeling very much even then, and she knew that it would
be far worse for her on the following morning, when the house would be
left silent and deserted, "I shall be glad," she said, "to think that
we leave you comfortably settled with friends who are so much interested
about you; and I am sure neither Mrs Herbert nor Amy would bear the
thought of your staying behind."
Emily did not press the proposal, for she was conscious that to act
upon it would give her much pain; but she employed the hour that elapsed
before the carriage was ordered to take them to the cottage in arranging
different things for Dora and Margaret, which they did not understand
themselves, and which Morris thought herself too busy to attend to.
The moment for departure at length arrived; but Amy would not allow that
she was saying "good-bye," for she dwelt upon the thought of seeing her
cousins the next morning.
"It is good-bye to Emmerton, though," said Dora.
"Yes," replied Amy; "and I don't like it at all, now it is come to
the point. I shall always avoid the place till your return. It will be
nearly the summer then, I suppose, or, at least, it will be quite late
in the spring."
"You must write very often," said Dora, "it will be our greatest
pleasure when we are shut up in London." And then, turning to Emily, she
added, "I have no right to ask any favour of you; but you do not know
how glad we should be to hear from you. We should think then that you
had quite forgiven us."
"I cannot write for that purpose," said Emily, endeavouring to smile;
"but if you will let me tell you how I am, and what I am doing, for my
own satisfaction, I think you will not find me negligent."
"It seems," said Amy, "as if I had a great many things to say; but
everything is ready, and papa and mamma are waiting. You will be sure
and call to-morrow."
Emily would have spoken again, but her heart was full. Even the prospect
of her life at the cottage could not, at that moment, make her forget
all that had once constituted the charm of Emmerton; and with a feeling
of regard for Dora and Margaret, which a few months before she would
have thought it almost impossible to experience, silently and sadly she
followed Amy to the carriage.
The fire blazed cheerfully in the breakfast-room at Emmerton Cottage on
the following morning, and the sun shone brightly through the window,
as if to prophesy that the gloom of the winter would speedily be passed
away. And there were faces assembled round the table, which suited well
with the brilliancy of the weather. Even Emily, as she seated herself by
Mrs Herbert's side, and listened to her tones of kindness, and watched
Colonel Herbert's attention to her most trifling wishes, could scarcely
feel sad; or if an occasional shadow crossed her mind, it vanished as
she looked upon Amy, and saw the deep, tranquil happiness expressed in
every feature of her countenance. It was the happiness not merely of
external circumstances, but of the inmost heart; for Amy's recollections
of the past were as peaceful as her hope for the future was unclouded;
and the blessing of a holy, humble spirit, was one which no wealth could
have purchased. Many glances were turned to the window to watch for the
carriage from Emmerton; but breakfast was nearly over before it was seen
turning the corner of the lane. Amy ran to the door to beg that they
would come in; but Mr Harrington thought it better not, as they were
already so much later than they had intended. The joint entreaties of
Dora and Margaret at last, however, prevailed, though the permission was
granted only for one instant.
"I wished so much to do it," said Dora, "because I want to fancy how you
go on when we are in London; and it will not seem natural to think that
Emily is here unless I have seen her."
"I can hardly believe that she is really living with us," replied Amy;
"but I should be dreadfully sorry to think that it was not true."
Dora's glance around the room was but momentary, yet it was sufficient
to make her feel how blest Amy must be with such a home, and such
parents. "I could envy you, Amy, so very much," she said, after they had
both spoken a few kind words to Emily, and urged her not to forget her
promise of writing; "yes, I could envy you for everything."
"Not envy," said Colonel Herbert; "you would not wish to deprive her of
her blessings."
"No," answered Dora; "but I would wish to share them; every one wishes
for happiness."
"And every one might find it," observed Colonel Herbert, "if they
would but seek for it rightly. Perhaps, though, I was wrong in saying
happiness; but peace, which is the nearest approach to it on earth, is
in every one's power."
Mr Harrington's voice was heard calling to his daughters to hasten; and
the conversation was abruptly broken off.
"What did your papa mean, Amy?" said Dora, as she stood upon the step of
the carriage. "Just tell me, in one word, if you can, that I may think
about it."
"He must have meant," answered Amy, "what I have often been told, that
when people are good their hearts are at peace, and then no sorrow can
really make them miserable."
Dora had not time to reply. The parting words were once more spoken; the
carriage drove from the door; and Amy returned to her happy fireside,
and the enjoyment of the blessing she had that moment described.
Mr and Mrs Harrington returned with their family to Emmerton; and to a
careless observer, it might have seemed that the death of their
child had produced but a passing impression on their minds. The first
bitterness of grief was gradually softened by time and the daily
occupations of life, and calmness, and even cheerfulness, were at length
restored to them. But the effects of their sorrow were not the less
real, because exhibited in action rather than in words. They were to
be seen in a constant observance of family worship, in an increasing
attention to their children and servants, and in the untiring exertions
which were made to assist Mr Walton in providing for the comfort and
instruction of the poor. The change was felt by every one within the
reach of their influence; but to Dora, it was a blessing beyond all
price, for Emmerton was so retired as to oblige her to depend entirely
upon her home for happiness; and in her parents she now met not only
with affection, but sympathy, and, from their example, learnt to find
her chief satisfaction in the quiet performance of everyday duties. Of
Miss Cunningham she saw but little, Mrs Harrington being too fully alive
to the defects of her disposition and education, to feel any longer
inclined to cultivate an intimacy which had once been considered of so
much importance; and although Margaret's character differed too widely
from Dora's to afford all that was required in a friend, her sister
was enabled, by continual watchfulness, to bear with her failings, and
cherish her better qualities, while the society of Amy gave her the
great blessing of confidence and mutual interest, which formerly she had
so much needed.
And years passed on, and Emily Morton was still an inmate of the
cottage. Amy no longer depended upon her instruction, but the blessing
of her love and her example, when once felt, it was hard to part from;
and neither Colonel Herbert nor his wife could willingly consent again
to cast upon the mercy of the world one who had gradually become dear to
them as their eldest child. Colonel Herbert had prophesied truly, when
he said that the summer of Emily's life was yet to come. The remembrance
of Rose never faded from her mind, but it was blended with a calm and
lasting gratitude for the mercy which had taken her in her innocence
to a world where there was no sin; and Amy's deep affection, and
never-ceasing consideration for her happiness, filled up entirely the
aching void, which would otherwise have been left in her heart. Neither
was there any cause now to fear lest Miss Morton should be treated with
ridicule or contempt at Emmerton, for the feelings with which she was
there regarded were those of the truest esteem and regard; a regard
heightened by the circumstances which had for ever associated her with
the remembrance of little Rose.
And of Amy herself, what more need be said? If the cottage had been a
scene of happiness, when shared only with her mother, its enjoyment was
tenfold increased by the presence of her father and Miss Morton. Mrs
Herbert's health was, for some time, a source of anxiety; but care, and
the tranquillity of her domestic life, by degrees restored her natural
strength, and Amy's mind was then completely at rest; and although,
as she grew up, the romance with which she had once invested Emmerton
partially vanished, her pleasure in visiting it became more real as she
felt, day by day, that her cousins were more fully her friends, and able
to enter into her highest and purest pleasures. And there were times
when even the visions of her childhood seemed realised. The chapel was
opened for daily service whenever the opportunity offered; and Amy could
then yield to the influence of its hallowed beauty, without one sigh of
regret, as she gazed, not upon noble knights and high-born ladies, but
upon those she best loved on earth, about to join in the solemn act of
united worship, and to offer to their Maker, not only the sacrifice of
their lips, but also of their hearts and lives.
Amy's lot was indeed blessed; blessed in her parents, her relations,
and her friends; but, above all, blessed in that she had been taught to
remember her Creator in the days of her youth, and could look forward
with calm confidence to the Divine support in the "evil days," which
must come upon all.
THE END.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON.