"I see that," replied Amy, "because I remember, after I had been at Rochford Park, the cottage seemed quite changed, and not half as pretty as it was before—yet it was not really altered; but I do not think I should have cared so much if I had thought that I should ever live there."
"You will not care again," said Emily, "if you will learn to look upon all beautiful things as the types or images of the treasures of heaven; for no one will desire very much to possess an imperfect picture of any object when he is soon to enjoy the reality. I can understand your feeling, though, entirely; and Rochford Park, I have heard, is very lovely."
"But the people who live there are not lovely," said Amy; "only Mr Cunningham, I like. As for Miss Cunningham, I am afraid I shall dislike her more than ever now."
"You must try not," replied Emily. "She might have been very different with better education; and we might have been like her if our temptations had been as great."
"Not you," said Amy; "I am sure it is impossible."
"Nothing of the kind is impossible, dearest," replied Emily. "We might all have been like the worst persons that ever lived if we had not received such great advantages; and, even now, God will not consider us better than others if we do not profit by them. There are many of us who bear a very good character in the world, and yet must appear hateful in the sight of God."
"I think that is papa just come out of the house," exclaimed Amy.
Emily stopped and trembled. "I do not think I can speak to him now," she said, faintly. "Will you come with me into another walk?"
"The one leading to the lake is the most private," said Amy; "only there is not so much sunshine there."
Emily did not reply, but moved quickly away; and a few minutes afterwards Mr Harrington and his sister joined Colonel Herbert on the terrace. They walked for some time almost in silence; and Amy, as she watched them could not help wishing; that her mamma might see Miss Morton, and come to her, for it would be a pleasure to both of them; and it did not seem that she was doing any good in being with her uncle. After a time, however, something was said which apparently interested Mr Harrington; for he listened attentively while Colonel Herbert spoke, and then answered him with greater animation than he had before shown. Amy had a full opportunity for observing all this, as Emily had become suddenly silent. She also was looking at the party on the terrace, and was evidently thinking only of them. The conversation lasted for a considerable time, and Amy, fearing that Miss Morton would be fatigued, begged her to go in; but she answered, rather hurriedly, that she would much rather not; and Amy was not inclined to press the matter, for the unusually mild air and the brightness of the weather had seldom been so refreshing to her.
Sometimes, as she watched her father, she thought the conversation must have some reference to Emily, for he looked frequently towards her; and Mrs Herbert's smile, as they once unexpectedly met at the angle of the terrace, made her hope that the subject might be an agreeable one. She did not, however, dwell much upon the idea, having never understood that it was likely for any change to take place in Emily's situation; but just as she was about again to propose that they should go in, Colonel Herbert left Mr Harrington, and coming towards them, told Amy that she had better walk with her mamma, as he wished to speak to Miss Morton a few minutes alone. "I will not detain you long," he added, turning to Emily; "for I am sure you must be tired. Perhaps you would rather rest yourself first?"
"Oh no!" exclaimed Emily; "I am not in the least tired; and I would much rather hear everything now."
"You will, perhaps, scarcely imagine the subject I wish to mention," said Colonel Herbert, as he walked by her side; "but you have said that you would give us the privilege of old friends, and allow us to name your wishes to Mr Harrington; and though I am so little known to you, I hope, when you have heard my reasons, you will not think me intrusive in wishing to speak of them to yourself, personally. If your memory could carry you back as far as mine, I think you would understand why I can never consider you a stranger."
"Indeed, I can remember," said Emily, and her voice faltered. "They were my happiest days, and every person connected with them must always be remembered by me, particularly one who was so well acquainted with my family, and so kind to them."
"Then we will not be strangers," said Colonel Herbert, "but old friends who have a mutual interest in each other's welfare. If you will promise to think of me in that light, I shall have less hesitation in asking a favour of you."
"Of me!" exclaimed Emily, with surprise; "you cannot doubt my willingness to grant anything you may require; but it seems impossible that I should be able to do anything for you."
"I understand," replied Colonel Herbert, "that it is your wish now to leave Emmerton, and Mr Harrington agrees in thinking that it may perhaps be better; but he is very unwilling that you should go at once amongst strangers, with whom you can have no sympathy; and the idea of it has made him extremely uncomfortable, for he feels, with Mrs Herbert and myself, that from our early acquaintance we are in a great degree your guardians and protectors, and bound to consult your happiness."
"You are very, very kind," said Emily; "but I doubt if you will be able to think of anything better for me in the end."
"Will you try the plan we wish to propose?" said Colonel Herbert. "If it should not conduce to your happiness, we should be the first to wish that it might be altered."
"I will do anything that is thought right," replied Emily.
"Then," said Colonel Herbert, "will you consent to return with us to the cottage, and take Amy for your pupil?"
Emily was silent, and for an instant Colonel Herbert feared that some objection might exist in her mind for which he was not prepared; but when he looked at her countenance, he saw that she was endeavouring to answer him calmly. Twice she tried to speak, but her words were choked; and at last, giving way entirely, she burst into tears. Colonel Herbert felt that his presence must be painful to her, and merely saying that he would wait for an answer till she had had more time for consideration, he left her, and she was immediately afterwards joined by Mrs Herbert.
"I am afraid you have been startled, my dear," she said; "Colonel Herbert insisted upon speaking to you himself; but men never know how to manage these things well."
"Oh! indeed," said Emily, "he has only been too kind; but it cannot really be true; you cannot mean that I shall not be obliged to go away from you?"
"It must depend entirely upon your own choice," replied Mrs Herbert. "If you can be happy with us, and will consent to take charge of Amy, you will ease me of a burden which is too much for my health, and give us all most heartfelt pleasure."
"But Mr Harrington," said Emily, feeling as if there must be some objection to a plan which promised so many blessings at a moment when she was almost overwhelmed with sorrow.
"My brother feels with us entirely; it will be a real relief to him to know that you are happy, or at least in the way of becoming so; for we can only hope to make you tranquil and comfortable at first. And now I shall not let you stay here any longer, but you must go to your room, and I will send Amy to you. We thought that, perhaps, you would like to name the subject to her yourself."
Emily spent the few moments that elapsed before Amy's knock was heard at her door in endeavouring to realise the mercy thus granted her, and to feel grateful to God, who had bestowed it. Though almost confused by the suddenness of the idea, yet her first thought had been of Him; and if in the time of sorrow she had prayed earnestly to be devoted to His service in thought, and word, and deed, still more earnestly did she now pray that no earthly blessings might ever lead her heart from Him.
Amy's countenance was sad when she entered. She had been talking to Dora, whose spirits were so much depressed that it was difficult to console her. Amy had seen comparatively little of her during the preceding week, for she had been in constant attendance upon her mother, or endeavouring to cheer Margaret; but the latter did not now require so much sympathy; she was quiet and sorrowful, but the first excitement of feeling was over; and her aunt's conversation had in a great measure satisfied her mind as to her own share in the accident. Dora had, therefore, more time to give to her own reflections; and they were very painful. Everything around her was melancholy; and even her mother's abstraction and indifference were scarcely so distressing to witness as her father's silent suffering, and Frank's mournful face; while the thought of Emily Morton was almost worse than either; for Dora felt that she might have been a comfort to her now, if she had only been less unkind before. It gave her a pang to know that Amy was admitted to Emily's room at all times, though she had only been acquainted with her for a few months, while her own visits were merely occasional; it would have been far more natural and right that Emily should look to her as a companion; and as she thought this, Dora's memory recalled all her past neglect and selfishness, and the bitterness of self-reproach added tenfold to her other sorrows. Amy heard it all, but could say little in reply. She knew that Dora had often acted very wrongly, and that now she was justly suffering for it; but she also felt quite certain that Emily Morton did not for a moment think of it.
Dora, however, was not satisfied with this assurance; she could not be, till she had spoken to Emily herself. "I cannot bear," she said, "only to be allowed to go into her room now and then; it seems as if she were quite cut off from us—and Margaret says the same; for indeed, Amy, you cannot think how sorry Margaret is now for what she did. She has been speaking about it to me this morning, and she wishes so much to say something. I believe aunt Herbert made her promise to do it, when she had that long conversation with her the other day. When do you think Emily will be able to see us both? I mean not just for a few minutes, but really to talk to her."
"I daresay she will to-morrow," said Amy; "for I believe she intends going down-stairs as usual, now; and then you will see how true it is that she does not think about anything, but really loves you very much."
"She is almost an angel, I believe," said Dora, earnestly.
"Yes, indeed she is," exclaimed Amy; "I am afraid to think much about her being so good, because then I get a fancy that she will be taken away; and I could not bear her to go."
"But I don't think she will stay here," said Dora.
"What do you mean?" inquired Amy, hastily.
"It will be so different now to what it used to be. She will not have much to do with Margaret and me; and I am nearly sure she will go."
"But not yet—you cannot mean yet?" said Amy. "I daresay it may be when you are quite grown up; but that is so far off."
"I think she will leave us at once," said Dora. "I have often heard mamma say that she had but one very great reason for keeping her; and you know that is all gone."
"Yes," said Amy, thoughtfully; "but she can teach you still."
"Mamma's notions are changed, lately, I think," replied Dora; "she does not like having a person who is a governess and no governess."
"But has she said anything to you?" inquired Amy.
"No; for poor mamma does not think of anything now. I don't know when she will again."
"Then Miss Morton cannot possibly go away yet?"
"Perhaps not; but at any rate she will before very long. I wonder you never yet thought about it, Amy."
"It seems quite impossible," said Amy. "I cannot think of Emmerton and you without her."
"She will never be happy here," replied Dora; "so perhaps it will be better; only I should be glad for her to remain here some time. I think I should try and make her comfortable."
"I must ask mamma," said Amy. "It makes me so unhappy to think about it.I shall never rest till it is quite certain."
"I don't think any one knows for certain," replied Dora; "but you will soon learn from what Emily says herself."
"I cannot ask her," said Amy; "but I am sure mamma must know; and she must be come in by this time. I wonder whether what papa wished to say to Miss Morton had anything to do with it?"
"Oh no! he would not be the person to talk to her. But you need not distress yourself so much. Amy; it will not be just yet."
"I must know," said Amy. And she ran off to her mother's room; but she was stopped by Susan Reynolds, who told her that Miss Morton desired to speak to her. Amy's fears immediately conjectured the intelligence she was to receive, and her face plainly betrayed her anxiety. "Is it anything very particular?" she said, as she entered. "Is anything the matter?"
"Why should you think so?" replied Emily gently. "It is not very strange that I should like to have you with me."
"But Dora says,"—and here Amy paused, for she felt that to repeat the conversation would be to inquire into Miss Morton's plans.
"What does she say?" asked Emily. "You are not afraid of telling me anything, are you?"
"Not if it is right," replied Amy; "but I don't think I ought to say this."
"Then you shall not," said Emily. "I am sure you will judge properly; only, if it is anything that concerns me, you need hardly think that I should be vexed."
"Are you quite sure? I should be so very glad to know; but I thought it would seem impertinent."
"I will let you ask anything you like," replied Emily; "and if it is something I must not answer, I will tell you."
"You will not go away?" said Amy, timidly, and at the same time looking anxiously in Miss Morton's face.
"I am going from Emmerton," replied Emily; and poor Amy felt as if a shot had passed through her heart. "But I am not going far away, I hope," she added, as she watched the quiet tears that trickled down Amy's cheek. "It depends upon you how far."
"Oh no!" exclaimed Amy; "it cannot depend upon me. You know I would never have you go away from me; I would have you live with me always, and I would love you, and do everything for you, and I would attend to all your wishes; and then, perhaps, some day you might say that I had made you happy."
"And will you really love your governess?" said Emily. And she put her arm round Amy's waist, and drew her fondly towards her.
The truth flashed in a moment across Amy's mind. "Was that really what papa said?" she exclaimed.
"He asked me," replied Emily, "if I would go back with you to the cottage: and he said that you should be my pupil; and now you shall decide."
Amy could not answer; for words are even more powerless to express joy than grief. But Emily needed no assurances; and for the moment she yielded without fear to the consolation which an affection so deep was capable of affording her.
There was a strange mixture of feeling in Amy's mind, on the following morning, when she thought of all that had lately occurred. It was impossible to forget Rose, but it was equally impossible to avoid thinking of Emily; and she immediately began to anticipate the pleasure of living with her, and exerting herself for her happiness. The new arrangement was satisfactory to every one, though when named to Mrs Harrington, she merely said, "Yes, certainly, it would do very well;" and then appeared to take no further interest in it. Even Dora and Margaret felt it a comfort that Emily would be near them; for now that they were about to lose her, they first began to be sensible of her value. Little unthought-of kindnesses and daily self-denials were remembered with regret that they had been so lightly appreciated: and Dora looked at her music-books, and Margaret at her portfolio, and sighed as they thought that they should have no one for the future to take an interest in them as Emily had done.
"I shall envy you more than ever, Amy," said Dora, as they walked together in the garden a few days afterwards. "I always thought you were happier than we were; and lately, I am sure of it."
"You will get better by and by," said Amy. "I know how you must feel,—the place is so altered."
"Yes," observed Margaret; "and it will never be what it was again. It does not look the same."
"I think even the blue sky has grown dim," said Dora; "yet I like to look at it, because I can think that little Rose is there. But the sky will never be dim to you, Amy."
"Why not?" asked Amy. "I know I must have a great many sorrows, just as other people have."
"But," replied Dora, "I am sure it is something in one's own mind which causes it. The earth often looks gloomy when there is really nothing the matter; but I do not think the sky would, if we never did wrong: and that is the reason why I do not think it ever will to you."
"Indeed, Dora," exclaimed Amy; "you don't know anything about me; and you will find out some day how bad I am."
"I dont wish to find it out," said Dora. "It pleases me to believe there are some people in the world who always do right."
"Then you shall believe it of mamma, and Mrs Walton, and Miss Morton," said Amy.
"I don't like to think of Emily," replied Dora. "When will she let us go and talk to her."
"I hope she will soon," said Margaret. "It quite weighs upon my mind."
"I told her yesterday that you wished it," answered Amy; "and then she said you thought a great deal more about things than herself, and she did not like you to be distressed; and that she had thought you would have understood her feelings by her manner at breakfast and dinner."
"That will not quite please my aunt," said Margaret. "I promised her I would speak to Emily myself; and I do wish very much to do what she likes."
"There is Miss Morton just coming down the steps," said Amy; "perhaps ifI were to go away, you would like to say something now."
Margaret rather hesitated, feeling half ashamed when the opportunity was given her; but Dora urged that there might be no delay: and Amy went into another walk.
"I fancied," said Emily, as she came up to them, "that Amy was with you.Mr Walton is in the house, and wishes to see her."
"I will go and call her," said Dora; "she is only gone into one of the back walks."
Emily begged she would not trouble herself; but Dora felt quite pleased with the opportunity of showing her a little attention; and Margaret and Emily were left alone. Margaret was extremely embarrassed; and Emily perceiving that something was the matter, made a few passing observations on the beauty of the weather.
Margaret's answers were short, for her mind was pre-occupied; and it was not till she saw Dora returning that she summoned courage to say, "You would not let me speak to you before; but I must tell you now, I am so very sorry,—and I have wished so much that you should know it."
"Indeed, I have known it," replied Emily; "and I hoped you would have understood from my manner how little I have thought about it. We have both been suffering too much not to feel for each other; and I have had you in my mind very often, and wished that I could have comforted you."
"But it was not only that," continued Margaret; "I wanted to say, and so did Dora too, that we know we have often been very unkind, and done a great many wrong things; and we should be much happier if you would say that you forgive us."
"Will you?" said Dora, who had been walking a few paces by their side.
"I do not like to say it," replied Emily; "it seems now as if I had no right to do it. All the pleasure I have known for the last two years has been found in your family; and what I feel now is thankfulness that it has been so much greater than I deserve."
"But we did not make you happy," said Dora. "You would have been miserable if it had not been——'
"For Rose," continued Emily, firmly. "I do not know, indeed, how I should have felt without her; but with her I had, at times, all that I dared desire; and now God has given me blessings for which I can never be sufficiently grateful."
"Yes," said Dora; "Amy is a blessing to every one."
"And you are blessings too," replied Emily, in a tone of deep interest and kindness. "You do not know the satisfaction you are affording me now; and you may be unspeakable blessings to your parents."
"We shall not know what to do when you are gone," said Margaret; "and my aunt and Amy also."
"Your mamma will recover herself by and by, I have no doubt; and then we shall be so near, it will be scarcely like a separation."
"There was one thing," said Dora, "which I thought I would ask you: butI am afraid you will not tell me if you had rather not."
"I will tell you really, though," replied Emily. "I always try to say exactly what I mean."
"Then do you think, sometimes, if we go to the cottage, you would be able to hear us play, and look at our drawings? We shall be so very much at a loss without you."
"I trust," said Emily, "that my being away will make but very little difference to you in those things; you know I shall not be so far off but that I can come to you, or assist you whenever it will give you the smallest pleasure."
Dora expressed her thanks, and felt how little she deserved such kindness; and Margaret hoped that she would not leave them yet. "Everything will seem a great deal worse then," she said.
"Mrs Herbert intends staying with your mamma while she continues so ill, I believe," replied Emily; "but when she is better, I heard Colonel Herbert say, he should like to go directly to the cottage."
"Do you know what Dr Bailey thinks about mamma?" asked Margaret.
"He says that she requires change, but she is not equal to the exertion of moving."
"I wish we might go somewhere before Frank returns to school," observedDora. "He has had such melancholy holidays."
"Should you like to go to London?" said Emily.
Margaret started at the idea. "Oh no!—not to London; any place but that."
"I thought you wished it once," said Emily.
"Yes; but things are altered since then. I shall never wish to go there."
Emily looked surprised; but she did not inquire the reason of Margaret's sudden alteration of feeling, thinking it was most probably caused by the loss they had all sustained; and remarking that Mr Walton might perhaps wish to see them before he went away, she proposed that they should go into the house. The mention of London brought many sad reflections to Margaret's mind; and while slowly following her sister and Emily, she began to think of Miss Cunningham, and to wonder what her feelings had been upon learning all that had happened, and whether the idea that she had been the origin of it had occurred to distress her. "Do you think Lucy will go to London without us?" she said to Dora.
"She will never go at all, if she does not," replied Dora. "Papa will not consent to her being with us again as she used to be."
"She will be very sorry about it," said Margaret.
"Oh! it will not signify to her. She will find other persons to suit her just as well; and she will go to gay parties, and drive about in the parks, and forget us, and everything about us."
"Not everything," said Margaret. "I am sure she cannot forget everything. She must feel for us."
"Perhaps she may care for a day or two; but it is not her way to think on any subject long. Do you think it is?" added Dora, turning to Emily, and moving aside to allow her to pass before her into the house.
"I hope it may be, by and by," was the reply; "but I am afraid she has not been taught to think much as yet."
"There is one of the Rochford servants coming down the avenue now," saidDora. "Perhaps he has brought a note or a message."
"I suppose he is only come as usual to inquire for mamma," saidMargaret. "Morris says Lord Rochford has sent nearly every day."
There was, however, a note for Margaret, which was given her just as she was about to go into the drawing-room, but there was no time to read it till Mr Walton was gone.
He did not stay long, for he had seen Mrs Harrington, and was anxious to return home to keep an engagement; but he was very much pressed to repeat his visit, especially by Mrs Herbert, who hoped that seeing him might be effectual in exciting Mrs Harrington's interest. "I think," she said, "that my sister will take more notice of you another time; I remarked to-day that she listened more than usual to what you were saying."
Mr Walton promised to return, if possible, the next day; and then, taking his leave, Margaret was at liberty to read Miss Cunningham's note. It was short, and Margaret thought cool, although there were many expressions of sympathy for the family. "Her brother," she said, "had begged her to write, but she had not much to say, though she was extremely sorry for them, and hoped that Mrs Harrington had not been very angry with Margaret. She expected soon to be able to drive over to Emmerton, and, in the meantime, should be very glad to hear of them all."
"I would not give much for Miss Cunningham's affection after such a note as that," said Dora.
"What did you expect from her?" asked Emily.
"I don't know, exactly; but any one might have written it; and after being with us so much, I think she might have said something more. I did not imagine she cared for me at all, but I thought she had some feeling for Margaret."
"Do you think it cool?" said Margaret, turning to Emily.
"Rather," she replied: "but you could scarcely have supposed she would have written in any other way."
"Why not?" asked Amy.
"Because it is seldom people feel much for sorrows that are not present to them. If Miss Cunningham had been with us for the last ten days she would probably have cared very much more."
"She is so selfish," observed Dora; "she never can sympathise with any one."
"Indeed," replied Emily, "I think she would if she were taught to do it."
"How can persons be taught to feel?" said Dora; "it must come naturally to them."
"Not quite. The feelings are certainly given to us originally, but they may be very much increased by action. If Miss Cunningham were once taught to do little trifling kindnesses for her friends she would soon feel for them. You know it is almost a proverb that benefactors are fond of those on whom they confer favours."
"I dare say you may be right," said Dora; "but I cannot imagine that Lucy Cunningham will ever be anything but a cold, hard-hearted, disagreeable girl. Margaret perhaps may find out her virtues some day or other, but I am afraid I never shall."
Margaret was silent:—she was vexed and disappointed, but did not like to own it; and she was so fully aware of her unkindness to Emily, that she expected Lucy to be the same, forgetting how differently they had been circumstanced. Miss Cunningham's preference had flattered her, while she believed it real; but she was now beginning to perceive that, where selfishness is the foundation of the character, no trust can be placed in any professions of affection.
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; butI 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 MrsHarrington, when Emily had warmly thanked her for this remembrance;"Colonel Herbert insists upon our calling; but it will only be for amoment, 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.