‘Amy, dear Amy!’ cried the young man, agonised by her bitter sobs, which ceased not, though he had raised her up, and supporting her hardly-sensible form strove to console her, but in vain. ‘Amy, speak to me! one word, only one word, and you will be better: call me by my name—anything—only do not look so utterly wretched, nor sob so bitterly. God knows I have enough to bear in leaving you so suddenly, but this misery is worst of all. Dear Amy, look up! say that you will try to conquer this, and I shall have the less to reproach myself with for having told you of so much.’ But she spoke not; she could not utter one word for the choking sensation in her throat. She passed her hand over it often, tried in vain to swallow, and gasped in the attempt.

‘Good God, you are ill!’ exclaimed Herbert hurriedly; ‘what can be done? what can I get? My own Amy!—dearest, dearest!—do not look so.’ But his entreaties were of no avail against her overpowering grief; she had struggled with the hysterical feeling till she could no longer oppose it, and yielded to its influence.

Distracted, Herbert knew not what to do. Aid there was none nearer than the house, and he could not leave her—he dared not. He raised her gently, and bore her like a child to the river’s brink. He unloosed her bonnet, and sprinkled water on her face; it revived her; and after some time and difficulty he succeeded in making her drink a little from his closed hands.

She recovered gradually, but lay sobbing still bitterly upon the grass, weakened and exhausted by the violence of her emotions. Herbert continued to hang over her in the greatest anxiety, and to implore her to speak in the tenderest epithets. He had not discovered how dear she was to him till he had heard his fate; and he had tried to argue himself out of the belief, but without avail. His high sense of honour then came to his aid, and he thought that it would be wrong to declare such feelings to her when he might never return; and fervently as he loved her, he could have spared her the bitterness of that lingering hope which is so akin to despair.

But in those moments he had forgotten all; thoughts of the past and for the future, all centred in intense affection for the helpless being before him, whose artless mind had not attempted any disguise of her devoted love for her companion of so many years.

At last she recovered sufficiently to raise herself up; and this, the first sign of consciousness she had given, was rapture to Herbert. He bent down to her, and attempted to lift her to her feet. She was passive in his hands, even as a weak child; and partly supporting, partly carrying her, he led her to the hermitage. There he seated her on the rustic bench, and kneeling down beside her, while one arm was passed round her,—for she could not have sat alone without support,—he poured forth with the impetuosity and tenderness of his disposition his vows of love, and his entreaties for some token that he had not angered her by his abruptness.

‘But one word, my Amy! but one word, dearest!—one word, that in those far distant lands I may feed on it in my heart, while your beautiful face is present to my imagination. Dearest, we have loved each other with more than children’s love from infancy; we have never expressed it, but now the trial has come, and you will not be the one to deny yours at such a time. O Amy, speak to me one word to assure me that I may call you mine for ever!’

Much more he said, and more passionately, but her hand was not withdrawn from his, nor did she remove herself from him. A tear at last forced its way from her closed eyelids, for she dared not to open them. Soon others followed; they fell hot and fast upon his hand for a little while; and at length, as she strove to speak, but could not, she was no longer able to control her emotion, and she fell upon his neck and wept aloud.

The young man strained her to his heart, and as he wiped the fast-falling tears from her eyes, he poured such consolation as he could find words to utter into her perturbed heart. She did not question his love,—she had no doubt of that; but there was one all-engrossing thought—his absence—beneath which even her light and joyous spirit quailed; and while it caused her to shiver in very apprehension of perils which her thoughts could not define, she clung the closer to him, and strove to shut out the evils with which her mental visions were overcast.

The trying test of coming absence, of dangers to be braved, hardships to be endured, had at once broken down all barriers of formality, and opened to them the state of each other’s affections in that perfect confidence, that pure reliance,—the gentle growth of years, it is true,—but which had at once expanded without a check, and would endure for ever.

Who can tell the exquisite pleasure of such a first embrace? Pure love, such as theirs, had little of the dross of passion in it. The knowledge that years must elapse ere they could meet again, the silent dread that it might never be, put a thought of possession far from them; and in the perfect purity and ecstasy of feeling of those moments,—in the indulgence of thoughts, new, yet so inexpressibly sweet to them,—it is no wonder in that sequestered and lovely spot, that hours should have passed, and time should have been unheeded; nor was it until the lengthened shadows warned them of the decline of the day, that they could speak of parting, or of the object of their visit.

The sketch had lain on the ground unheeded. Amy took it up. ‘It will be to me the silent witness of what has this day happened,’ she said, ‘and the dearest treasure I possess, Herbert, when you are gone from me. Now one little favour I beg, that you will sketch in ourselves,—me, as I lay fainting on the bank yonder, and you as you bent over me; for I think it was there and then I first heard you say you loved me, Herbert. To me it will be a comfort and a solace till you return, and then we will come here together, and you shall see that not a shrub or flower has been altered. Four years you said, dearest! they will soon pass, and I confess I have hope beyond what I thought I should ever have possessed. Four years! methinks in anticipation they are already gone, and we sit here,—you a bronzed soldier with a thousand tales for me to hear, and I will sit at your feet and listen, your unchanged and unchangeable Amy.’

Herbert regarded her with intense admiration, for her sadness had passed away; and though tears trembled in her bright eyes with every word she spoke, there was a joyous tone in her voice and in her expression; and his spirit caught that hope from hers which, under other circumstances, would have been denied him.

‘Willingly, most willingly, dearest,’ he said, taking the drawing from her; and in a few moments he had sketched in the figures;—she, raising herself up, had recovered consciousness, and he, bending anxiously over her, had implored her to speak to him. There was such force and tenderness in the attitudes that it told the simple story at a glance.

‘It is too plain, Herbert,’ she said half reproachfully; ‘I shall not dare to show any one your boldest and by far most beautiful sketch; nay, you are even making a likeness of me, which is too bad; but I need not fear, for no one shall ever see it but myself. My last look shall be of it at night, and with that my last thought shall be with you. Now that is enough; I will not have another touch, lest you spoil it; give it me, let me carry it home, and miser-like lock it up from every one but myself.’

‘You may have it if you will, dearest, but I must beg it for to-night at least. I will make a small sketch from it, and will bring it over early to-morrow.’

‘It is only upon your promise not to keep it longer than to-morrow morning that you may have it, Herbert. I am nearly inclined to make you stay at Beechwood to copy it, lest anything should befall it; but I am not selfish enough to detain you from those who love you as dearly as I do.’

Slowly they retraced their steps through every bowery path and open glade; the blossoms of the lime and horse-chestnut filled the air with luscious sweetness, and their broad shadows were flung wide over the richly-coloured sward. They wandered on, hardly heeding the luxuriant beauty of the landscape, with their arms twined round each other, while they spoke in those gentle, murmuring tones, which, though low, were yet distinct, and of which every word was striven to be remembered for years afterwards.

‘My father must know all,’ said Amy, as they approached the house; ‘we have nothing to fear from him, and therefore nothing to conceal; but I dare not speak, Herbert, so—’

‘I do not flinch from the trial, dearest,’ was his reply. ‘If you can bear it, I would rather you were present, but—’

‘No, no, no! I could not bear it, Herbert,’ replied the blushing girl; ‘and I had better not be present, I know, for we should both lose courage. No, you must tell all to papa; and leave me to my own solitude for a while, for indeed I require it. And now here we are at home; I need not say—for you know papa as well as I do—conceal nothing, for we have nothing to conceal.’

She ran lightly on through the hall, and up the broad staircase. Herbert followed her beautiful figure till he could see it no longer; then listened till he heard the door of her chamber close after her. ‘She has gone to pray for herself and me,’ he thought, and thought truly. The study-door was before him; his heart beat very fast, and his hand almost trembled as he placed it upon the handle; but his resolution was made in an instant, and he passed in.

Mr. Hayward laid down the book he had been reading, and took the spectacles from his nose as Herbert entered. ‘You are a pretty pair of truants,’ he said cheerfully; ‘an hour or two indeed! why ’tis just six o’clock! and where is Amy?’

‘She is gone to her room, sir, for a short time; she said she would not be long absent.’

‘And what have you been about? Come, let me see. You know I am a great admirer of your spirited sketches, Herbert; so hand me your day’s work, which ought to be an elaborate affair, considering the time you have been about it.’ And he replaced his spectacles.

Herbert blushed crimson; he felt his face glowing painfully; he had forgotten the roll of paper, which he had kept in his hand, and he could not deny that it was the sketch Mr. Hayward wished to see. He hesitated a little, grew somewhat indecisive in his speech: and, as the old gentlemen was beginning to suspect the truth, Herbert had told all, and stood before him glowing with manly emotion and proud feelings of rectitude. There was nothing to conceal, Amy had said, so he concealed nothing. He told him how he had intended not to have spoken to her; but how, overcome by the anguish of seeing her so prostrated by grief, he had revealed to her all his feelings, even at the risk of her displeasure. ‘Amy loves me, sir,’ he continued proudly; ‘nor does she seek to deny it. We have too long shared each other’s thoughts for any reserve to exist between us; and to you we fearlessly commit ourselves, in frank confession of our fault, if we have committed any.’

Mr. Hayward only mused for a moment; he loved Herbert too well, and had known him too long, to hesitate. ‘May God bless you both, my dear boy!’ he cried, rising from his chair, and extending his arms to embrace the young man. ‘May God bless you! If there had not been this dreadful absence to contemplate, I should have counted this one of the happiest moments of my life; as it is, I am thankful that Amy is loved by such an one as you, Herbert; but where is she? I can remain no longer without seeing you together.’ He rang the bell.

‘Tell Miss Hayward that I want her here as soon as possible,’ said the old gentleman to the servant.

A few minutes only elapsed, during which neither spoke. At last her light footstep was heard on the stairs; descending slowly it passed over the hall so lightly that even Herbert’s ear could hardly detect it; he fancied it hesitated at the door, and he flew to open it; and the smile of joy, of triumph, which met her hurried glance, served in some measure to assure her; her father stood with open arms, and lips quivering with emotion. ‘God bless you! God bless you!’ was all he could utter, as she rushed into them, and sobbing, hid her burning face in his bosom; nor did she venture to withdraw it for long, nor he to disturb her; the gush of joy which welled from his heart, as he strained her to it, was too pure to relinquish easily.

‘If I have been wrong, dear father, forgive me!’ was all she was able to utter, after a silence of some moments.

‘Nay, I have nothing to forgive, my sweet pet,’ he said: ‘I had looked for this happiness only as a consummation of my dearest wishes, and it is now as unexpected as grateful. But I will keep you no longer, Herbert,’ he said to him, ‘nor must Amy either, for there are others who have stronger claims upon you than we have, and I dare not detain you from them. I wish however, and Amy will second the wish I know, that you would come over to-morrow as early as you can, and give us a quiet day and evening together; it will be as much a source of gratification to you to dwell on when you are away, as it will be to us; so say, will you come?’

At any time the invitation would have been welcome, but now the imploring looks of the fair girl were arguments which could not be resisted.

‘I will be with you as early as I can,’ Herbert replied, ‘as soon as I can complete a task I have here, and I will not leave you till night; so for the present farewell, and I beg you to procure me the forgiveness, and I will add the blessing, of her whom I hope to call a second mother.’

‘You need have no doubts,’ said Mr. Hayward; ‘you have nothing to apprehend, but, on the contrary, I can assure you that this subject will be one of great delight to her; so once more, God bless you!’

Amy followed him to the hall-door, apparently to shut it after him, but she passed out with him, after a moment’s coquetting with the handle. ‘You will not fail, dear Herbert? I could not bear disappointment now,’ she said to him, her eyes filling and sparkling like violets with dew-drops hanging in them.

‘Nor for worlds would I give you one moment’s pain, dearest; fear not, I shall be with you soon after noon to-morrow. Good-bye, and God bless you!’

Perhaps it was that they had approached very nigh each other as they spoke, and he could not resist the tempting opportunity, or perhaps,—but it is of no use to speculate,—certain it is that he drew her to him gently, and imprinted one fervent kiss on her lips. She did not chide him, but felt the more cheerful afterwards that she had received it.

Herbert hurried home, and instantly sought his parents; he told them all, nor concealed from them one thought by which he had been actuated, nor one struggle against his love which he had failed to overcome. They were both much affected, for indeed it was a solemn thing to contemplate the plighting of their son’s faith with Amy, on the eve of such a separation. Yet they were gratified; and in their prayers that night, and ever afterwards, they commended the beloved pair to the guardianship and protection of Him whom they worshipped in spirit and in truth.