"Oh Miss Herbert!" exclaimed Susan, as she noticed her distress, "pray don't cry so; Miss Rose may get better after all; though, to be sure, Morris says she never saw a poor child so ill before in all her life."
"Is she so very much worse, then?" said Amy.
"Oh yes, Miss," replied Susan. "Morris says, if the doctor does not soon come, she thinks it will be no good having sent for him. She is quieter now; but a little while ago she was moaning, when I passed the door, so that one might hear her all along the gallery. And, oh! Miss Herbert, isn't it dreadful about Miss Morton's going away?—she who is so good and kind to every one. And what shall I do without her?"
"I wonder whether Rose asks for her?" said Amy.
"She did at first, I believe, Miss," answered Susan; "but Morris says she is all wild and wandering again now, and does not know any one."
"Oh! how I wish I knew what to do," exclaimed Amy, forgetting that Susan was near.
"Miss Morton will never see Miss Rose again, I should think," said Susan, "if she goes away now. Mrs Bridget and Morris, and all of them, think she won't live out the night."
"And does Miss Morton know it?" inquired Amy.
"She does now, Miss," replied Susan. "She asked me herself, and I was obliged to tell. And it was miserable to see how she looked; I thought she would have gone off quite."
Amy made no reply, but turned to the window to see if Mr Cunningham were still below. While Susan was speaking she had made up her mind as to what was to be done. Emily's wretchedness overcame every other consideration; and without further delay she hastened to the terrace. Mr Cunningham paused in his conversation directly he saw her; and when she came up, breathless and silent from fear and agitation, he inquired eagerly for Rose.
"May I speak to you?" replied Amy, unheeding his question. "Pray don't be angry with me."
"What! secrets!" exclaimed Lord Rochford; "then I suppose I had better go; but you must tell me first how it is all going on with the poor little darling."
"She is very ill indeed," answered Amy; "and my aunt is very much frightened about her."
"It is a bad business," said Lord Rochford. "I wonder Mr Harrington ever trusted such a young creature as Miss Morton."
"Oh! indeed," answered Amy; "Miss Morton did not leave her—at least I don't think she did. It was that I wanted to speak about," she added, hardly daring to look in Mr Cunningham's face.
Lord Rochford walked away; and Mr Cunningham, in the kindest manner, begged her not to be frightened, but to tell him at once if he could be of any use. "We are old friends now," he said, with a smile; "and if you take my part, I must take yours in return."
"Miss Morton is going away, said Amy, feeling that her courage would entirely fail her, if she did not enter upon the subject at once.
"Not now," exclaimed Mr Cunningham, in surprise; "not while little Rose is so ill."
"Yes," replied Amy; "the carriage has been ordered, and she is to go this afternoon. My aunt believes," she continued, speaking very quickly, "that Miss Morton has not told all the truth about having left Rose in the field alone; and so she says she must go directly. But Margaret and Miss Cunningham were there too, and I think——"
"What do you think?" said Mr Cunningham. "Had they anything to do with it?"
"I don't know," replied Amy; "but when I spoke to them just now, they did not seem quite to like telling me everything; and I thought that perhaps if you were to ask Miss Cunningham, she would not mind talking to you, and then you might be able to find out something which might prevent my aunt from being so displeased, and she might allow Miss Morton to stay till Rose gets better."
"I am not sure that I entirely understand what you mean," said MrCunningham. "Let me hear again what you wish me to do."
"If you would go to Miss Cunningham," repeated Amy, "and ask her to tell you the whole story, perhaps you would find out that Miss Morton did not leave Rose quite alone, as my aunt thinks she did, Margaret says they were a great way from her when she fell in; but then they might have been near her before."
"And will they not talk plainly?" said Mr Cunningham, looking very much annoyed.
"They would only say a little," answered Amy; "and then they went away.And I do not think they liked me to ask them any questions."
Mr Cunningham was fully aware of Amy's meaning, though she had endeavoured to express it as gently as possible. He had long and anxiously watched his sister's disposition, and had noticed too often the deceit which she did not hesitate to practise when it suited her purpose, for him to be surprised on the present occasion. If she had had any share in the accident, she would certainly be desirous of concealing it: yet the thought was extremely painful; and his countenance, as he walked with hasty steps towards the door, made Amy fear that she had offended him deeply. "I am afraid," she said, "that I have done wrong; but I was very unhappy, and the hour is nearly up, and then Miss Morton will go, and perhaps she will never see little Rose again."
"You have been right—quite right," replied Mr Cunningham. "But I must see Lucy directly: where shall I find her?"
"She is in her bedroom, I believe," said Amy. "She will think me very unkind."
"You need not be afraid," he answered. "No one shall think anything of you but what is right and good. You must not let Miss Morton go till you have seen me again."
The words were quite a reprieve to poor Amy, though she knew how great an offence it would be to keep the carriage waiting; for Mr Cunningham had been so kind to herself, that even if her suspicions were unfounded, and Rose had really been left carelessly, he might perhaps speak to Mrs Harrington, and prevail on her to change her determination. With this idea she was going immediately to Miss Morton to give her the hope of remaining, when Dora stopped her. "Well, Amy," she exclaimed, "what have you done?"
"Nothing," replied Amy; "at least, nothing with Margaret: but I have done something which I hope will be of use; I have spoken to Mr Cunningham."
Dora started. "Oh Amy! how could you be so bold? If I had been ever so great a favourite, I never could have done such a thing as that."
"I could do anything for Miss Morton," replied Amy. "But, Dora, do tell me how Rose is."
"Very much the same. Mamma is becoming dreadfully anxious; she can think of nothing else: if she could, I would have made one more effort for poor Emily. I wished we had asked her just now, when we were with her, to tell us everything just as she told mamma, for I am sure mamma did not half understand it. I did not think of it at the time, for it all seemed to have happened so suddenly, and everything was so confused."
"Supposing we were to go now," said Amy: "I am sure she must wonder what has become of us."
"I am afraid I cannot," replied Dora; "for mamma begged me to come back again directly. I was only allowed to leave her because she wished so much to know if there were any signs of papa or Dr Bailey coming down the road. I wish I could hear all you said to Mr Cunningham. But we must not stop now: you had better go to Emily."
"I will beg her to repeat the story, if you think it would be any good," said Amy.
"I am afraid that nothing would make mamma listen to anything from us now," replied Dora: "we must trust to Mr Cunningham. Lucy would hardly dare be deceitful with him; and I am sure Margaret would not."
"I would give anything to know what he has been saying since we have been here," observed Amy.
"You will know in a few minutes, if it is anything good," said Dora. "But I wish you would go now, and give poor Emily a little hope: and you may tell her that Rose has not been worse within the last quarter of an hour." And as she said this, Dora walked away, and Amy went to Miss Morton's room.
Mr Cunningham did not find his sister in her room; she had gone down-stairs again with Margaret, who could not endure to remain long stationary in one place, while there was so much cause for anxiety about her little sister. She fancied that it would be easier to learn what was going on by remaining in the schoolroom; and though fully resolved to allow everything to take its course, and not to say anything in Miss Morton's favour, she was still too uneasy to attend much to her friend's entreaties, that she would not put herself in the way of being again questioned by Amy or Dora.
Miss Cunningham was standing with her back to the door when her brother came into the room, and was much startled when she turned round and perceived him near her; for she saw immediately from his countenance, that something disagreeable was coming.
"I have been looking for you, Lucy," he said, in a voice rendered even more confused than usual by his eagerness, and the irritation of his feelings. "I wanted to speak to you particularly."
"What about?" replied Lucy, with as indifferent a manner as she could assume.
"You may easily guess what," he answered; "this sad accident—you were near the spot; how did it happen?"
"I cannot tell you all," said Lucy. "We were standing near the bridge, and just saw poor little Rose run from the top of the field, and fall in; and then we went to help her."
"But it is impossible," observed Mr Cunningham, "that Miss Morton should have left a child of that age quite alone. Are you sure she did not give you any charge about taking care of her?"
"I suppose she thought," said Margaret, anxious to evade a reply, "that as we were in sight it did not signify."
"But," continued Mr Cunningham, "if Miss Morton left Rose at the top of the field, and you were near the bridge, she could not have considered your being there as any security: in fact, I doubt if she could have seen you; you must have been nearer at first."
"How you puzzle one, George!" exclaimed his sister. "How is it possible to remember everything that happened, when we were all so frightened? I am sure I have felt bewildered ever since."
"Very possibly," replied Mr Cunningham, coolly. "But you will have the goodness not to be bewildered now: I must know the whole of this matter. Miss Morton is going away at a moment when it must be most distressing to her feelings, upon a charge of great neglect of duty. And I will find out whether the charge be true or false."
Lucy looked very frightened; she knew her brother's determination of character, and saw that there was no chance of escape, unless she chose to tell an actual falsehood; and this, notwithstanding her propensity to equivocation and deceit, she could not make up her mind to do. Margaret endeavoured to steal away unobserved: but Mr Cunningham prevented her. "You will excuse me; but this is a case in which I must be allowed to have my own way. I must beg you to remain; you may perhaps be able to assist Lucy's memory."
Margaret's colour went and came very quickly, her knees trembled, and her hand shook: but she did not dare disobey; and seated herself again, with her face turned from Mr Cunningham, and with the secret resolution of not speaking, if there were any possibility of avoiding it.
"Now, Lucy," said Mr Cunningham, again appealing to his sister, "I shall ask you one simple question, and I expect a decided answer. Did Miss Morton leave you in charge of Rose?"
"Really," said Lucy, hesitatingly, "I can't—I don't—you are very cross this afternoon, George, to come and tease us so, when you know how we have been frightened, and how very unhappy Margaret is."
"No one can be more sorry for the cause of her unhappiness than I am," he replied; "and when my question is answered, I will on no account tease either of you again. Perhaps you did not quite understand what I said; I will repeat it. Did Miss Morton leave you in charge of Rose?"
"You are vexing Margaret, I can see," replied Lucy. "I never thought you could be so unkind before. We came here to be quiet and alone."
"This is mere trifling, Lucy," said her brother. "You know full well that it will not answer with me; nothing will shake my determination of knowing the truth; and therefore the best thing you can do is, without any further equivocation, to tell me plainly what I wish to know."
There was a pause when Mr Cunningham had spoken; neither Lucy nor Margaret saw the least chance of evading the question, yet neither felt inclined to answer it. Mr Cunningham placed himself in front of his sister, looking at her calmly and sternly, and patiently waiting till she chose to reply; whilst she endeavoured to keep her determination of steadfastly gazing out of the window, and taking no notice of him. But it would not do; she stood far too much in awe of him to resist long; and at length, bursting into a fit of angry tears, she exclaimed, "I wish Miss Morton, and Rose, and all the family, had stayed at Wayland all their lives, instead of coming here to make me miserable."
"Then it is true," said Mr Cunningham. "You were left in charge of the poor little girl, and you went away from her; and then, when the accident occurred, you were too cowardly to take the blame upon yourselves, but occasioned great unhappiness to an innocent person, by allowing her to be accused unjustly. Yes, Lucy," he continued, observing that his sister rose hastily from her seat, and was about to leave the room, "you may well be anxious to hide yourself; but you will not be allowed to go till you have made the only reparation in your power. You will confess your fault to Mrs Harrington; I shall let her know instantly the mistake under which she has been labouring."
"Pray, pray, don't leave me," cried Lucy, as Margaret tried to escape. "Why am I to bear it all? you know it was quite as much your doing as mine."
But Margaret did not choose to attend; she was willing to be Miss Cunningham's friend when everything went smoothly, but she saw no reason for putting herself in the way of her mother's anger unnecessarily. And Mr Cunningham, having gained his point, hardly felt justified in interfering any farther. Without again speaking to Lucy, he wrote a note to Mrs Harrington, apologising for intruding upon her distress, but begging her to allow him a few moments' conversation on a subject of much consequence. And when the servant returned with the answer, he merely said to his sister, "Mrs Harrington will be here directly; you had better make up your mind to tell the truth in as few words as possible. It will be out of your power to conceal anything, as Miss Morton's own account will certainly be compared with yours."
Mrs Harrington's mind was now in a very different state from what it had been when Lucy had last seen her. The moments spent by her little girl's sick-bed had increased her anxiety, and subdued the irritation of her temper. Her feeling against Miss Morton was deeper, but less vehement; and occasionally, as she had listened to the moaning of the suffering child, and heard her repeat Emily's name with a wandering entreaty that she would come to her, her heart had relented, as she had felt inclined, for the sake of poor little Rose, to allow Emily to continue at Emmerton a few days longer. But on a second consideration the idea vanished; and her only wish then was, never again to be compelled to see or speak to a person whose neglect she believed had been the cause of so much wretchedness. Still Mrs Harrington was outwardly much calmer; and her harsh tones sounded as coldly as ever when she asked Mr Cunningham to do her the favour of mentioning his wishes quickly, as she could not be spared from her child's room.
"It is my sister's business rather than mine," he replied. "She has been induced, from fear of your displeasure, to conceal her own share in this most unfortunate accident; and she is now going to confess the truth, in hopes that you will allow Miss Morton to remain."
"It was Margaret," exclaimed Miss Cunningham; "I never should have moved from the gate but for her. I only went to the other side, at first, because it was drier; and then it did not signify; but it was Margaret who begged me to go down to the bridge, and look at the pony."
"And do you mean then," said Mrs Harrington, "that Miss Morton left Rose with you, and that you went away from her?"
"We only went into the steep field because it was dry," answered Lucy; "and Rose was quite in safety."
"I do not entirely understand you," said Mrs Harrington. "Perhaps you will have the goodness to explain yourself more clearly."
Miss Cunningham complied with evident reluctance, yet she did not venture to distort any of the facts, knowing that her brother would easily discover the whole truth upon a reference to Miss Morton. She only endeavoured to lay as much of the blame as possible upon Margaret, and to make Mrs Harrington believe that she would have spoken before if she had understood the cause of Miss Morton's sudden departure. The excuse, however, was too weak to succeed; a bitter smile curled Mrs Harrington's lip as she said, "You need not trouble yourself to give your reasons for what you have done; your brother, I am sure, must be as fully aware of them as I am. Margaret's conduct I shall inquire into immediately. I am afraid," she added, turning to Mr Cunningham, "there is a heavy punishment in store for her thoughtlessness and selfishness. My poor little girl is very ill."
The real feeling which was expressed in these words, and in the tone in which they were uttered, touched Mr Cunningham deeply; and his voice faltered as he replied, "It would be a punishment felt by very many; but we will hope and pray that it may please God to avert it."
"I will counter-order the carriage," said Mrs Harrington, recovering herself, and ringing the bell; "and I will inform Miss Morton of the change."
"Perhaps, at the same time," observed Mr Cunningham, "you would allow me to order our own. My father was speaking to me, just now, of the wish you had expressed this morning, that our visit should be prolonged; and doubting if it would be advisable after what has now transpired. Of course, we would on no account intrude upon you; my sister's presence, I fear, will never again be anything but painful."
Mrs Harrington could not contradict his words, and felt at a loss for a reply, when the entrance of the servant relieved her from the awkwardness. The carriage, which had just come to the door, was remanded; and a summons was sent for Miss Morton.
"You had better prepare for going immediately, Lucy," said her brother. "And if you have anything farther to say to Mrs Harrington, any apology to make for your conduct, or any message to leave for Miss Morton as a proof that you are really sorry for the pain your deceit has occasioned her, you had better speak at once."
Lucy, however, did not speak—at least she did not say what her brother desired; but, muttering sulkily that it was very hard she should have all the blame, and Margaret none, without venturing to look at Mrs Harrington, left the room.
Mr Cunningham quickly followed, in no very enviable state of feeling. He saw, from Mrs Harrington's manner, that she was seriously alarmed for Rose; and his sister's indifference was startling to him. He could not have supposed it possible that she would have been so insensible to the probable consequence of her neglect; for, with a disposition peculiarly free from selfishness himself, he did not understand how soon it blinds us to the sufferings of others, and how quickly it buries, if not entirely destroys, even in very early life, every better feeling of human nature. Miss Cunningham was not entirely cold-hearted; it is a rare thing, indeed, to find any one who is. But she was from nature and education intensely selfish; and it was this which made her dwell only upon the blame she had incurred herself, when others might have grieved for the misery they had caused their friends.
Mrs Harrington's message was delivered to Miss Morton at the moment when her uneasiness was becoming extreme; and she was endeavouring to make up her mind to go, without waiting for the effect of Mr Cunningham's interview with his sister. The carriage had been announced, and Mr Harrington's well-known dislike to its being kept waiting made her feel it wrong to delay; though Amy, whose hopes of Mr Cunningham's success, and dread lest Emily should never see Rose again, overcame every other consideration, entreated her to wait, if it were only for five minutes, in the certainty that they must soon hear something from him.
"It is only deferring the evil moment," said Emily. "I have been trying to collect resolution to bear it, and I hope I can now. It might be worse an hour hence. The last accounts were more comfortable; and I know your mamma will manage that I should hear again to-night. I wish I could see her; but it will be better not. You must say how I thought of her, and of the kindness she has shown me."
"It cannot signify for once," observed Amy, "if the carriage is kept a few minutes. I am almost sure Mr Cunningham will be able to do something."
"It is not real kindness to tell me so," replied Emily; "I shall only feel it the more difficult to do what is right. Indeed, I must go."
"Oh no!" exclaimed Amy, trying to stop her, as she moved towards the door; and at that moment Susan's knock was heard. "It is all right now," said Amy, when the message was repeated; "my aunt never would have sent for you if she had not changed her mind."
Emily thought the same, though she scarcely ventured to hope it; and Amy's anxiety was nearly at an end, when Susan, who guessed her feelings, told her that the carriage had been sent away. Miss Morton did not hear her exclamation of pleasure, or she would perhaps have trembled less on entering the school-room; but Mrs Harrington's countenance very soon reassured her. She was evidently aware of having behaved with impatience and injustice, and desirous of making amends, though her tone and manner would have seemed painfully repelling in any other person. Emily, however, thought of nothing but the purport of her words. They were few and chilling; but she acknowledged that she had been wrong in her opinion as to Miss Morton's neglect, and said she was sorry that Margaret and Miss Cunningham had allowed her to remain so long in error. Their conduct was highly culpable—in fact, quite unpardonable; and Margaret should certainly be spoken to most seriously on the subject. But at that moment it was impossible to think of anything but Rose; and she should be obliged if Miss Morton would go with her to the poor child's room, that they might see if it were possible to take any measure for allaying the fever before Dr Bailey arrived.
Notwithstanding the set, formal style of this speech, it was received by Emily with the most sincere gratitude, for she knew that it must have been a great effort for a person of Mrs Harrington's proud temper; and, considering only the intention, she followed her with a sensation of indescribable relief, which, on any other occasion, would have appeared quite incompatible with her great anxiety. Amy was waiting in the passage, and delayed her for one instant to ask if all were right. The question was scarcely needed, for Emily's change of countenance was a sufficient index to her mind; and Amy, as she heard her whisper, "It is your doing, and I shall never forget it," felt completely satisfied.
She was now at liberty to go to her mother, who, she feared, might be astonished at her absence. But Mrs Herbert had not long known her return from the cottage, and was only just beginning to wonder why she did not come to her.
Amy was full of eagerness to tell all that had passed; but her mother's first inquiry was for Rose.
"Your aunt particularly begged me to leave her," she said; "and I found that whilst Miss Morton was there I could not be of any use. But I really cannot remain here. I can see none of the servants; and I do not like constantly to ring, because of giving them additional trouble when there must be so much to be attended to."
"I don't think they are engaged particularly now, mamma," replied Amy. "Poor little Rose is quieter, and my aunt does not know what more to do."
"Perhaps, then," said Mrs Herbert, "she would not object to my being with her. I should have no occasion to exert myself much, and I might be some comfort to Miss Morton at least."
"A little while since," said Amy, "I am sure Miss Morton would have been more glad to see you, mamma, than any one else in the world—she was so very miserable; but she would not let me tell you, because she said it would worry you and make you ill."
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs Herbert; "has anything been going on in which I could have been of use?"
Amy soon related the whole affair, and concluded by anxiously asking whether her mamma thought she had done wrong in applying to Mr Cunningham.
"No," said Mrs Herbert; "I think, considering all the circumstances, you were quite right. It would have been a cruel thing for Miss Morton to have been sent away now. But have you seen Mr Cunningham since? and do you know whether he is going?"
"I rather think he is," replied Amy, "for I heard one of the servants saying something about Lord Rochford's carriage, as I crossed the hall; and I hope so, very much, for I should not know what to say if I were to see him again. I could not thank him for having found out that his sister had done wrong; and yet it was very kind of him. But, mamma, do you really think poor little Rose is so ill?"
"I am very much alarmed for her, my dear, she is so young to receive such a shock; and I have often thought her delicate, myself, though no one agreed with me."
"What will Miss Morton do?" said Amy.
"She will feel it very bitterly," replied Mrs Herbert. "Rose was her chief earthly comfort; but she will not murmur."
"And all her long life to come," said Amy, "there will be nothing to look to—nothing that she will care for."
"Yes," replied Mrs Herbert, "there will be things to care for—and there must be, while she has duties to perform; and it is distrusting the love and providence of God to think that He will not give her comfort and peace again. If her mind were different, it might be feared that she required years of suffering to perfect her character; but as it is, we may hope and believe that she will never be entirely destitute even of earthly happiness."
"I cannot bear to think of her." exclaimed Amy, while the tears rushed to her eyes. "It seems so hard—so very hard, that she should suffer. And Rose, too,—Oh mamma! she is so young to die."
"And therefore, my dear, it is the greater mercy that she should be taken from a sinful world. Do you not remember that beautiful verse in the Bible?—'The righteous perisheth, and no man layeth it to heart: and merciful men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away from the evil to come.' If death is thus sent as a blessing to the good, surely we may think that it is sent equally in love to the innocent."
"Mamma," replied Amy, as she looked in her mother's face, "you say so; but I am sure it makes you very unhappy."
"I cannot talk about it now," said Mrs Herbert; "it will only unfit me for doing what I can to comfort your aunt and uncle, and Miss Morton. When your papa returns, I shall certainly go and beg them to let me be with them."
"I think," observed Amy, listening at the door, "I can hear a noise down-stairs as if some one were just come."
"I wish it may be your uncle and Dr Bailey," said Mrs Herbert.
"No," replied Amy; "it is papa; I am sure it is his voice. He is talking to Bridget; and she will keep him so long."
But Colonel Herbert was not a person to be detained by any one when he did not choose it. He quickly learned the outline of what had happened, and then hurried away to learn more of the details from his wife. Mrs Herbert, however, would not remain long with him. She could not endure the idea of being away from Rose, when every fresh account served only to increase her alarm; and, leaving Amy to answer all his questions, she went to Mrs Harrington with an earnest request to be allowed to stay in the room, even if it were not in her power to be of use.
Mrs Harrington was by this time in a state of such nervousness and excitement, that she scarcely comprehended what was said. She knew only that Mr Harrington ought to have returned long before; and that his continued delay might be fatal to the life of her child. Miss Morton did her utmost to soothe her; but her own anxiety was very great. Rose still continued in the same state, tossing from side to side, and occasionally fixing her eyes upon Emily, as she bent over her, with the fixed, unnatural gaze, which told, even more plainly than words, that reason had fled.
Dora took the opportunity of her aunt's presence to leave the room. She wished very much to see Margaret, and talk a little to Amy; and felt oppressed and confused by the sight of an illness which painfully recalled all she had suffered on her brother's account, only a few months before. Any active exertion would have been easily borne; but to sit by the side of a sick-bed, perfectly powerless, required a patient, trusting spirit, which as yet Dora was far from possessing. And she watched with astonishment the calm self-composure with which Emily Morton did all that was necessary for Rose, and then turned to Mrs Harrington to suggest a reason for Dr Bailey's delay, or give her some hope that the symptoms were rather more favourable.
Colonel Herbert was listening to Amy with a deep yet painful interest when Dora knocked at the door. She would have gone away, on seeing him; but he would not allow it, and, placing an arm-chair by the fireside, made her sit down, and begged her to stay with Amy, just as long as she liked; for he was sure she must want some one to talk to when she was in so much distress. Amy evidently did not quite like her papa to go away; and Dora, vexed at having interrupted their conversation, entreated him so earnestly to stay, that he could not refuse, though he determined not to be a restraint upon them for more than a few minutes.
"Papa knows everything now," said Amy. "I had just finished telling him when you came in."
"I met Lord Rochford's carriage on the road," observed Colonel Herbert; "and they stopped, and told me what had happened. I am afraid, Dora, your poor mamma must be in a dreadful state of suspense and alarm."
"I think Margaret is more unhappy than any one," said Dora. "She was crying so bitterly when I went to her room just now; and she had fastened her door, and would not let me in at first."
"She will never forgive me for having spoken to Mr Cunningham," saidAmy.
"Yes," replied Colonel Herbert; "she will forgive everything when she can forgive herself."
"Now Lucy is gone," said Dora, "she is left quite alone; and she thinks every one in the house is complaining of her, and that she is the cause of all mamma's misery; and she does not dare go out of her room for fear of meeting her."
"I wish she would let me go to her," said Amy; "I am sure she must think I have been very unkind. But indeed I did not mean to make her so wretched; I only thought of Miss Morton."
"She cares more about poor Rose now than anything else," replied Dora. "She says it will make her miserable for life, if she does not get better. And I know I should feel just the same. It would be so very dreadful to think of having caused such an accident."
"But," said Colonel Herbert, "it certainly seems to me that Margaret's deceit in Miss Morton's case was far worse than her having left Rose."
"Only the consequences may be so much worse," said Dora.
"The consequences of our actions are not in our own power, my dear Dora," answered her uncle. "If we look to them, we may just as well say that Miss Morton ought to be miserable, or the poor man who drove the cows into the field, they all had a share in the accident."
"Certainly," said Dora, "when Margaret and I were talking together just now, we traced it all back to Julia Stanley and Mary Warner. It was they who made Lucy so angry. And if it had not been for that, Margaret says she never should have asked her to go out; and then Emily Morton would not have left poor little Rose with them, and the accident would not have happened. How unhappy they would be if they knew all that had occurred from their laughing at Lucy and saying foolish things."
"It is a great blessing," said Colonel Herbert, "that we are not in general permitted to see the consequences of our actions; if we were, we should be afraid either to move or speak; but I believe God sometimes does show them to us, in order to make us fearful of doing the slightest thing that is wrong. When we have once known all the evils that a hasty word or selfish action may bring upon ourselves or upon others, we shall learn how carefully we ought to walk through life, avoiding, as the Bible says, even the appearance of evil."
"But, papa," said Amy, "if we do not think of the consequences of what we do, how shall we ever be able to tell what is right?"
"Do you not see, my dear child," replied Colonel Herbert, "that we never can tell the consequences of anything? we do not know what is going to happen the next minute; and therefore we must have some other guide."
"It is very difficult sometimes to find out what is right," said Amy.
"The best way of discovering our duty, my dear," replied her father, "is to have a sincere wish of doing it. People puzzle themselves because they do not really make up their minds to fulfil their duty, whatever may happen. They wish to escape if they can; and then they begin to think of the consequences, and so they become bewildered, and at last nearly lose their power of discerning right from wrong. You know, Amy, what our Saviour calls 'an honest and true heart;' if we possess that, we have a better guide for our conduct than any which the wisest philosopher could give us."
"I think I wished to do what was right just now, papa," said Amy; "but yet I could not make up my mind about it."
"I do not mean to say," answered Colonel Herbert, "that we shall always be able to decide at once; but I am sure that, if we patiently wait and pray to God to assist us, we shall find that something will happen, as was the case with yourself when you could not resolve upon speaking to Mr Cunningham, which will make it quite clear to us where our duty lies; only, generally speaking, persons cannot endure suspense and doubt, and so they act hastily, even with good intentions, and then blame themselves when it is too late."
"What did happen just now?" asked Dora.
Amy hesitated for a reply; she could not repeat the fears that were entertained for Rose; but her father came to her assistance, "One of the servants had seen Miss Morton," he replied, "and told her that your poor little sister was not so well; and the description of Miss Morton's distress decided Amy upon applying to Mr Cunningham."
"I would give all the world," exclaimed Dora, "if Dr Bailey were come; and it would ease Margaret's mind so much too."
"I wish it were possible to comfort her," observed Colonel Herbert; "butI am afraid it would be out of the power of any one at present."
"Oh, if Rose should but get well!" exclaimed Dora, "we shall all be happy again then."
"Yes," replied her uncle; "but do you not see, my dear Dora, that nothing can really make any difference in Margaret's conduct?"
"Indeed, uncle," said Dora, "it would be impossible not to feel differently."
"I will quite allow that," replied Colonel Herbert; "and I am not wishing so much that Margaret should care less about Rose, as that she should care more about Miss Morton. The one fault was far greater than the other; and we must never forget that sorrow for the consequences of our faults is not repentance; it will not keep us from sinning again when the temptation offers. The only sorrow which can really be of service to us is that which makes us shrink from an evil action when it is done in secret, and apparently without having any effect upon others. I mean," he added, seeing Dora look surprised, "that we must learn to dread deceit, and selfishness, and vanity, for their own sake, because they are hateful to God, not because they make us disliked by our fellow-creatures."
Dora could not entirely see the distinction; she thought her uncle harsh in his manner of speaking of Margaret; and Colonel Herbert soon perceived by her silence that she did not enter into what he had been saying; he did not, however, like to pursue the subject any further, for it hardly seemed the moment to discuss questions of right and wrong, when Dora's mind was in a state of so much anxiety; and he therefore contented himself with begging her not to think that he could not feel for Margaret most sincerely, because he wished that she could see her actions in a just point of view. "I am a stranger to her as yet," he said; "but I shall hope soon to show how real an interest I take in her, and in all of you. Even if I were not so nearly connected, I could not forget the kindness and affection you have shown to Amy, and that some of her happiest moments have been spent with you."
Dora's heart was a little softened by this speech; neither could she easily resist the polished dignity of Colonel Herbert's manner, which gave a peculiar charm to every expression of feeling. She did not, however, choose to acknowledge it, and exclaimed, when he left the room, "Your papa is so different from every one else, Amy; he almost frightens me. I wonder you could talk to him as you did this morning."
"I don't feel comfortable always," said Amy; "especially just at first when I begin; but afterwards I forget everything but the pleasure of having him home again, and then I can get on quite well."
"I wish Julia Stanley had talked to him a little," observed Dora; "he would have put her down delightfully."
"I wanted to ask you a few questions about her and the others," said Amy; "but there has been no time; and no one has been able to think of common things. Perhaps, though, you would rather not tell me about them now."
"Yes, I would," replied Dora. "I think it does me good to forget for a few minutes. I sat in that room just now, looking at poor little Rose, and watching mamma's misery, till I felt as if I could not breathe—there was such a weight upon me; and it will come back again presently."
"Don't fancy that," replied Amy; "it may all be right by and by."
"I cannot think so," said Dora. "I have often had a fear about Rose, though I hardly know why; but she was so beautiful and innocent, and everyone loved her so—she seemed born for something better than living amongst persons who are always doing wrong. Do you remember, Amy, the day we went together to Stephen's cottage, when he talked so gravely, and said that she had an angel's face, and that it was fitter for heaven than for earth? It gave me a pang to hear him; and I have thought of it so often this afternoon."
"I remember it quite well," said Amy; "and how grave you looked afterwards. But, Dora, would it not make you very happy to know that you never could do wrong any more?"
"Yes. And then Rose has never done any great harm as other people have, who are older; and, besides, she cannot look forward to anything."
"That is what I feel sometimes," said Amy. "It seems as if there were so many things to be seen in the world, and so much pleasure to come when one is grown up. I can quite understand that old people do not care about dying, or persons like Miss Morton, who have nothing to make them happy; but I cannot feel like them."
"Poor Emily!" sighed Dora; "she will be more unhappy than any one." And then, as if trying to shake off painful thoughts, she added, in a different tone, "But, Amy, you must tell me at once what you wish to know about Julia Stanley, or I shall have no time left. I promised Margaret to go back to her for a few minutes."
"It was nothing particular," said Amy; "only I wanted to hear what time they went away, and whether Mary Warner said anything more to Miss Cunningham."
"Lucy and Margaret went out almost immediately after you were gone," replied Dora; "so they did not meet again; and I don't think it would have been of any use if they had, for there was nothing really to be said—Mary had done no harm; and I am sure Julia Stanley would have rendered matters ten times worse if an apology had been made in her presence. She tried to make Mary as angry and pert as herself, but it would not do; and at last she quite laughed at her, and called her a tame-spirited girl, who was not fit to go through the world; and then Hester took Miss Cunningham's part, and said that they neither of them knew how to behave, and she would appeal to me to support her; so you may imagine my walk was not very agreeable; and I was quite glad when we came back to find that the carriage had been ordered and they were to go directly. They all left messages for you, Amy, excepting Mary, who told me she had seen you. Julia was really kind, and begged me to say how glad she was about your papa's coming home, and that she wanted to have told you so herself; and Hester joined with her, but I don't think she really cared much."
"And Mrs Danvers," said Amy; "when did she go?"
"Directly after breakfast; because she was afraid of the children being out late. I wish, oh, how I wish she had stayed, for then Rose would not have been taken for a walk. They had all left us before one o'clock; and Mr Dornford prevailed on papa to let Frank return with him for a day or two."
"I shall never think of any of them with much pleasure," said Amy; "though I enjoyed some things when they were here very much. I wonder whether they will ever stay with you again."
"I don't know," replied Dora. "Mary Warner may, perhaps, because her home is not very far off; but Mr Stanley intends to live in London soon; so that unless we meet there, I suppose there is not much chance of their ever coming in our way again. But one thing more, Amy, I must tell you: I saw Mr Cunningham and Lucy before they set off. Lucy was very sulky, and would hardly speak; but Mr Cunningham was extremely kind; and I could see how much he felt for us all. He begged particularly to be remembered to you, and said he wished he could have said good-bye to you."
"I think he is the kindest person I ever met with," replied Amy; "but still I am very glad he went away. And if I had seen Miss Cunningham, I cannot think what I should have done."
"Perhaps her brother will not speak of you," said Dora; "but as it is, I don't think she is very fond of you. She looked more sulky than ever when your name was mentioned. And now I think I have given you the history of every one, so I had better go to poor Margaret."
"Margaret will not like to see me, I am sure," observed Amy. "But I wish you could tell her how sorry I am,—I don't mean that you should give her a message; but only if, in talking to her, you could make her think me less unkind."
"She does not know that you had anything to do with the affair," repliedDora.
"But I would much rather she should know," said Amy, looking vexed. "I could never bear her to love me, and yet feel all the time that I had been deceiving her."
"I will tell her, if you desire it: I did not like to do it before. But if I were in your place I could not keep such a thing back."
"No," answered Amy; "I do not wish any one to love me when they do not know I have done things to vex them: it would seem as if I were taking what did not belong to me. But, Dora, perhaps you will say to Margaret, now that I wished her to know it myself, and that I am very, very sorry about it, and that I hope, with all my heart, she will forgive me."
"She would never be angry with you if she felt as I do," said Dora.
"Hark!" exclaimed Amy, interrupting her, "is not that the hall door-bell?"
Dora ran into the gallery to listen, but came back with a disappointed countenance. "It was not the bell," she said; "but I could see the groom who went with papa riding down the avenue, what can have made him return alone?"
Amy had scarcely time to answer before Dora was gone to make inquiries. They were not satisfactorily answered. Mr Harrington had not found Dr Bailey at home, but hearing that he was only absent on a visit to a patient, about a mile from his own house, he thought it better to follow him himself, and had sent the servant back with a little pencil note, explaining the reason of the further delay. The information, however, in some degree relieved Mrs Harrington's uneasiness, for a thousand vague fears had arisen in her mind; and notwithstanding her alarm for her child, she could now feel comparatively composed.
Rose also was again becoming more tranquil; and her mother began to cheer herself with the hope that even before Dr Bailey's arrival, there might be a considerable change for the better. But in this hope Emily Morton did not participate. Though equally anxious, she watched every symptom with far greater calmness; and, young as she was, had seen too much of illness not to perceive that the change which appeared to be taking place was likely to end fatally, unless Rose possessed a strength of constitution sufficient to enable her to bear up against the excessive weakness with which it was accompanied. The remedies that had already been tried had in a measure allayed the fever; but the poor little girl was evidently suffering from some internal injury; and her low moanings were as distressing to Emily now as her vehemence had been before.
The moments passed wearily by. Colonel Herbert and Amy walked up and down the avenue, although the evening had closed in, listening for the trampling of the horses' feet: Dora remained with her sister; and Mrs Herbert sat in the chamber of the sick child, forgetful of herself, as she tried to console those whose sorrow was greater than her own. Emily Morton was the first in the house to catch the distant sound; and immediately afterwards Amy's voice was heard at the door, whispering that her uncle and Dr Bailey were just arrived. Emily left the room, thinking that Mrs Harrington might prefer her being absent; and while the physician was deciding upon a case on which it seemed that her own life depended, she paced the gallery quickly with Amy at her side, without uttering a single expression either of hope or fear, and endeavouring to bring her mind into a state of perfect submission to whatever it might be the will of God to appoint.
Much as Emily had loved Rose before, though she had been for months the very sunshine of her existence—the one bright gem which alone gave a charm to her daily life—she had never fully realised how much her happiness depended upon her till that moment; and when at length the door again opened, and Mr Harrington and the physician came into the gallery, all power of utterance seemed denied her, and unconsciously she caught Dr Bailey's arm, and looked in his face, with an expression of such fearful anxiety, that, accustomed as he was to scenes of suffering, it for the moment almost overcame him. But even before he had spoken Emily had learned the truth from Mr Harrington's countenance. She had never seen the same look of anguish before but on one occasion, when he stood by the death-bed of his eldest son. "I know it," she exclaimed, with the same unnatural hollowness of voice which had startled Amy before: "you need not tell me; I felt there was no hope."
"We will not say there is no hope," replied Dr Bailey, kindly, yet gravely. "She is so young that her strength may rally again."
"It is better to know the worst at once," said Mr Harrington. "But can you indeed do nothing?"
"I fear not," was the reply. "There is apparently some internal mischief. But of course I will do everything that lies in my power; and I shall hope to return here very early in the morning, when I shall be better able to judge of the case from the effect of the medicines I have ordered."
"Do you think she will know us again?" asked Emily, rousing herself from the first stupor of grief.
"It is probable she may," replied Dr Bailey. "The fever will most probably diminish; and the pain she is suffering may, I think, be soothed by opiates."
"And is it quite impossible that you should remain with us to-night?" inquired Mr Harrington. "I need not say that where the life of my child is at stake no sacrifice would be too great."
"You must not talk of sacrifices," replied Dr Bailey. "No one could look at that sweet child without feeling that to be the means of restoring her would be more than a sufficient recompense for the greatest exertions. If it were not that I have a still more urgent case requiring my presence, nothing would induce me to go. But I have no immediate fear for your poor little girl; there is not likely to be any great change for several hours; and you must remember she may rally after all."
Whilst Dr Bailey was speaking, Amy had brought a chair for Miss Morton, and stood by her side, earnestly desiring to comfort her, yet not daring to do more than show it by her manner. It was a grief so deep that she could not venture to speak of it; and her own tears fell fast, as she remembered what Rose had been, only a few hours before, and thought of the condition to which she was now reduced.
But a few more words passed between Mr Harrington and Dr Bailey; and when they parted, there was a promise given, that, if possible, the latter should return to Emmerton by day-break. Mr Harrington was rather relieved by the idea, and hastened to his wife to give her the same comfort; but he found her in a state which rendered her incapable of receiving it. Her expectations had been so sanguine before Dr Bailey's arrival, and she had hoped so much from the decrease of the fever, that the disappointment was doubly felt, and she now required almost as much attention as Rose. Cold as she generally appeared, her affection for her children was very great; and Rose from her infancy had been her especial delight; and now that she was called suddenly to part from her, at a time when she was still suffering from the loss of her eldest boy, her whole mind seemed to sink under the trial. Emily Morton's love, indeed, was not less; but there was a principle to support her, of which Mrs Harrington knew but little; for she felt only that Rose was dying, and her thoughts could not dwell with comfort upon the world in which she would live again. At this season of distress the blessing of Mrs Herbert's presence was particularly felt. The sight of so much sorrow made her insensible to all pain or fatigue; she seemed to possess a power of thought and feeling for every one; and her natural energy enabled her to decide at once upon what was best to be done.
Dr Bailey's orders for Rose were quickly attended to; Mrs Harrington was conveyed to her own room almost insensible; and a few words of kindness and sympathy were spoken to Emily, which gradually recalled the feeling of resignation to which her mind had been so long tutored, and restored her power of action. Mr Harrington went himself to inform Dora and Margaret of Dr Bailey's opinion, and then stationed himself at the door of the sick chamber, that he might be informed of every change that took place; whilst Amy, after doing her utmost to assist Mrs Herbert, went to her father, who was now left solitary and anxious in the room, which only the evening before had been filled with company, and resounding with music and merriment. The contrast was indeed strange; and Amy, when thinking of it, could scarcely believe it possible that so much had happened in so short a space of time. It was her first lesson in the changes of life; and it spoke even more plainly than her mother's warnings of the utter insufficiency of wealth to afford anything like real happiness. At that hour she felt how little comfort her uncle could derive from being possessed of the means of gratifying every passing fancy. He would have sacrificed all, without a thought, to have restored his child to health; but his riches and his luxuries were powerless; and the one only consolation now remaining was that blessing of prayer, which was equally the privilege of the poorest of his neighbours.
Margaret's feelings, upon being first told of Dr Bailey's opinion, were bitter beyond expression. She accused herself of having been the cause of all that had happened; and declared that unless Rose recovered she should never again know a happy moment; and then, as the burst of sorrow subsided, she endeavoured to find some excuse for her own conduct in that of Miss Cunningham, appealing to Dora to determine whether, if it had not been for her, she should have been induced to leave Rose by herself. Dora tried to console her; but she could not help remembering what Colonel Herbert had said; for she saw that Margaret had no idea how faulty her conduct had been with regard to Miss Morton; so entirely, indeed, had it passed from her mind, that even when told of what Amy had thought it right to do, she took but little notice, merely saying that she had always thought Amy loved to meddle with everything, and then renewing her self-reproach and her complaints of Miss Cunningham. For some time she could not be persuaded to leave her room; but, as the hours wore away, she became more tranquil, and at last consented to go to her little sister, though it was with a shrinking reluctance, which proved how much she dreaded to look upon the change of which she had been partly the cause. The effect, however, was at first less painful than might have been expected. The medicines which had been administered had in a great degree lulled the pain, and Rose was now lying in a state of torpor. Margaret gazed on her for some moments in silence, but without any great apparent distress, until Rose opened her eyes and looked up in her face with perfect unconsciousness; and then her cheek turned pale, and her lip quivered, and, unable to bear the sight, she turned hastily away, and again shut herself up in her own room.
Several hours passed after Dr Bailey's departure, and Rose still continued so quiet, that a faint hope was felt even by Emily Morton that her strength of constitution would enable her to rally from the shock she had received. Mrs Herbert also fancied that she perceived some signs of returning intelligence, and went herself to Mr Harrington to cheer him with the favourable account, and to ask whether he thought it would be expedient to communicate it to Mrs Harrington; but the amendment was so trifling, that he feared the consequences of a second disappointment. She was therefore only told that Rose was more tranquil, and that everything had been done which Dr Bailey advised; and Mrs Herbert urged the necessity of her taking some rest, if she wished to be of any service in attending upon her child on the following day. At first she strenuously resisted, but her husband's entreaties at length prevailed; and, after some consultation, it was decided that Morris and Emily Morton should watch till the morning, and that Mrs Harrington should have the earliest intelligence if any change took place for the worse. Mr Harrington went to his room, but not to rest, still less to sleep. There were none, indeed, in the house who could obtain more than a few moments of forgetfulness. The slightest sound was listened for with anxiety; but through the greater part of the night all remained still, and nothing but the light which gleamed from the sick chamber would have indicated that any thing unusual had occurred. During this time there was no change to excite either hope or fear; and Emily, as she observed the perfect repose in which Rose was lying, almost hoped that she slept. The painful expression of a wandering mind had passed away, and but for the irregular breathing and the altered complexion, she could have imagined that her anxiety was a delusion. And yet the thought that Rose might recover did not bring with it entire happiness. In those silent hours of watching, Emily's mind had recovered its usual tone, and she had forced herself to look with steadiness upon the loss she dreaded. For herself, it would be the severing of her dearest earthly tie; but for Rose, it would be an escape from all the dangers of the world to the enjoyment of rest and peace for ever; and as she recurred to the bitter trials of her own life, and the sins and infirmities with which it had been crowded, she felt that to wish that one as yet so innocent should be spared to struggle with the same temptations would be merely a selfish regard to her own feelings, without any reference to considerations of far higher importance.
What Rose might be in after-life no one could dare to say. When she grew up Emily must leave Emmerton; and, though she could trust and hope that God would guard her through the difficulties of life, she could not but tremble for her. To lose her now, would be to feel that she was gone to happiness; to lose her then, might be to dread lest she should have forgotten the promise of her baptism, and departed from the path of holiness in which she had so earnestly endeavoured to lead her. The very possibility was fearful; and as it flashed upon her mind, Emily went to the window to relieve herself from the oppressive gloom of a sick chamber, by looking upon the heavenly beauty of a cloud-less night. All was perfectly still; the long shadows of the trees were motionless upon the lawn, and not even a leaf was stirred by the night breeze. The earth seemed to be at rest; but Emily well knew that the peace of that hour would quickly pass away, and that the morning might bring with it rain and storms to deface all that now appeared so fair. It was not upon the beauty of this world that her heart could dwell with comfort at such a moment; but she could look upon the bright stars which glittered above her head, and rejoice to think that there were homes where sorrow had never entered; and then she prayed, not that Rose might be restored to her, but that God would guard her whether in life or death, and grant to herself a perfect submission to His will.
Emily was still standing at the window when a slight sound startled her. She fancied that Rose had spoken; but Morris, who was at the further end of the room, had not noticed it. Again, however, her name was repeated distinctly; and when she went to the bed-side, she saw by the light of the lamp, that Rose had opened her eyes, and was gazing around, apparently bewildered with the new situation in which she found herself. At the first instant, Emily's heart bounded with joy, but another glance made it sink in despair. Rose had recovered her senses; but a change had passed over her countenance, which told that her hours were numbered. It was an expression that Emily had too often watched to be deceived; and anxiously beckoning to Morris, she determined upon sending immediately to Mr Harrington. Morris, however, was leaving the room, and did not observe her; and afraid of startling Mrs Harrington by ringing the bell, she thought it best to wait a few minutes for her return, and endeavour in the meantime to soothe and tranquillise the suffering child. "I am near you," she said, softly. "You know, my darling, that I never leave you."
"I thought you were gone," said Rose. "Why do you let me stay here?"
"Because it is better for you to be here than in any other place. You will not care if I am with you."
"It is all strange," said Rose. "When will you take me away?"
"If you are better, you may go by and by," answered Emily, hardly able to articulate the words; "but you are too ill now."
Rose tried to lift her little hand to her head, but she had not strength for the effort. "It pains me so," she said.
"But it is God who sends you the pain," replied Emily; "and He loves you so much, you will try and bear it."
"Will He make me die?" asked Rose, fixing her dark eyes earnestly uponEmily's face.
For a moment Emily could not answer; and then, recovering herself, she said, "If God should make you die, my darling, He will take you to heaven; and you will live with Him, and with Jesus Christ, and the holy angels. You will not be afraid?"
"Must I go alone?" continued Rose. "You always said you would be with me everywhere."
"It is not God's will," replied Emily. "I must not go with you now, but I will pray that I may follow you by and by. And He will watch over you, and love you much more than I can; and you will be so happy, so very happy, you will never wish to return back again."
"Then you will come soon, and mamma, and papa, and all," murmured Rose, whilst her head sank, and her eyes closed.
Emily, in alarm, was about to ring the bell, when she again opened them. "Don't go," she said, feebly clasping Emily's hand. "It is all dark. Why will not mamma come?"
"She will be here directly, I hope," replied Emily. "But it is not really dark; and God is near, and the angels, though you cannot see them."
A second time Rose closed her eyes, and appeared to be repeating something to herself. Emily gently withdrew her hand, and going to the other side of the room, she rang to summon Morris. Rose looked at her as she stood again by her side, but scarcely seemed to know her, till Emily placed her hand on hers; and then, with an effort, she said, "am I naughty? Indeed I cannot remember it."
"Remember what?" asked Emily, anxiously endeavouring to catch the reply.
"Say it, say it," murmured the dying child.
Emily bent still closer, and heard the words—"Our Father, which art in heaven," though they were so faint as hardly to be intelligible. "I will say it for you," she replied, summoning all her self-command to subdue the agony of her feelings; and, kneeling down, she repeated, calmly and distinctly, the holy prayer which Rose had been taught in her earliest infancy, and which was now recurring to her mind, to bless and soothe her death-bed.
Whilst Emily was yet speaking, Mrs Harrington, followed by her husband, who had been alarmed at the sound of the bell, entered the room; but Rose did not appear to notice them. A momentary strength had been granted her, and with a clear though feeble voice, she followed the prayer to the end; and then, stretching out her little hand, she said, "Mamma, it is bright now. They are come to take me." And with a faint smile, as she half repeated Emily's name, her head once more sank upon the pillow, and the innocent spirit was at rest.