"Ah!" said Mr Walton, half muttering to himself; "I doubt if it will be right; it may only excite a false hope—there will be no harm in delay."
"What?" exclaimed Amy, who just caught the last words, "delay, did you say?—what delay?"
"Nothing, nothing," answered Mr Walton, hastily. "I wish your uncle would not make me delay here; he does not generally speak to any one when he leaves the church, but to-day he is having quite a conversation."
Amy looked earnestly at Mr Walton, with the conviction that this was only said to distract her attention; and an indefinable feeling of mingled dread and curiosity took possession of her mind. But there was nothing to satisfy her. The expression of Mr Walton's countenance was cheerful as usual; and Amy, though very quick in perception, was not quite old enough to perceive a trace of thoughtfulness beneath it. She did notice, however, the quick, impatient glances which he cast towards the churchyard gate, and the restlessness of his manner as he paced up and down the little walk leading to it, venting his uneasiness by kicking away the leaves and broken sticks lying in his path. In another person it would not have been remarkable; but she was so accustomed to see Mr Walton perfectly composed, that in an instant it awakened her attention. The parting words were at last said; Mr Dornford walked away; and Amy hoped that in a few minutes her curiosity might be set at rest. But she was disappointed. Mr Walton eagerly seized her uncle's arm, and drew him aside. A short conversation ensued; and then Mr Harrington called out that they had better not wait for him, but walk home alone, and he would follow. Amy really felt uneasy, and yet she could hardly tell why, but her mamma's constant anxiety had in some degree infected her; and anything like mystery immediately made her think of Colonel Herbert. Miss Morton listened to her fears with interest, and did her utmost to calm her mind, telling her that, in all probability, Mr Walton's business was something connected with his parish, and that it was unlikely, almost impossible, he could have heard anything from India; but she advised her not to mention her notions to her mamma till after her uncle's return, as it would only make her needlessly uncomfortable; and if there were anything to be told, she would not be kept long in suspense. Amy hearkened, and tried to believe; and had been so used to depend upon the opinions of others, as to be almost persuaded she had been fanciful without reason, while she readily promised to say nothing of her anxiety; but she could not recover her usual happy spirits; and when they reached Emmerton, instead of going immediately to Mrs Herbert's room, she petitioned Miss Morton to walk once more with her to the lodge gate, that they might see when her uncle arrived. He waited, however, so long, that Amy herself grew weary of watching, and was the first to propose returning to the house.
"You will be tired," she said to Miss Morton, "and then we shall not be able to go and see Mrs Walton this afternoon. You know, you promised you would, if you could manage it, because you did not like to wait behind after church; and I should be so sorry to miss it, for we always used to dine with her on Christmas-day; and she will be so vexed if she does not see either mamma or me."
Miss Morton acknowledged herself cold, though not tired; and, at any rate, it was useless to stand longer at the gate, for, after all, there might be nothing to hear; and Amy repeated for the twentieth time, that she did not really think there was anything, though, at the same instant, she ran a few steps down the road, just to look once more round the corner.
Mrs Herbert was dressed, and more comfortable, and had many questions to ask, as to whether Amy had had a pleasant walk, whether she had spoken to Mr Walton, and whether Mrs Walton found her rheumatism worse than usual; and Amy, seated by the window, endeavoured to answer them all, with her mind wandering to other things, when the sudden appearance of Mr Walton and her uncle, on the terrace below, made her stop short and exclaim, "There they are, both of them. I think there must be something."
The next moment brought her to recollection; but there was no retracting what had been said,—she was obliged to explain; and the change in her mother's countenance, and the subdued tremulousness of her voice, soon gave her reason to repent her incautiousness.
"This will not do," said Mrs Herbert, endeavouring to command herself. "Amy, my love, tell your uncle I should wish to speak to him immediately."
The message was, however, unnecessary. Mr Harrington had seen Amy at the window, and now, pausing in his walk, begged to know if he might be allowed to come up. "And Mr Walton is with me," he added. "May he come too?"