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