"A niece, I believe, of Mr Harrington's," said Mrs Danvers; "there is nothing very remarkable about her, only she interests me from circumstances."
"What circumstances?" inquired her friend.
"Her father is in India," answered Mrs Danvers, "and they have had no letters for a long time; and though there has been some rumour of him lately, and he may be returning home, it is very uncertain; and Mrs Herbert is in such a dreadful state of anxiety in consequence, that she is extremely ill; and if anything should happen to her, of course the poor child will live here."
"She will have a comfortable home, at all events," observed her companion.
Mrs Danvers looked grave, and replied, "It will be a very different thing from what it is now. Mrs Harrington is so proud, and her eldest girl so exactly like her, that it will be a state of miserable dependence."
"But is there no hope for Mrs Herbert?"
"None at all, as far as I can understand. She has been getting worse and worse for the last six months, and, in fact, I believe myself that she is dying."
Amy heard the last words, and it seemed as if all power of motion or utterance had been taken from her. For months she had felt at times a vague fear that her mother might be worse than she would acknowledge; but the interest of passing events had quickly dispelled her apprehension, and she had gone on till that hour without allowing herself to imagine that it could be actually possible; and now, in one moment, the dreadful truth had flashed upon her mind—truth at least it seemed to her, for it had been asserted so confidently, and by persons so much her superiors, that she could not bring herself to doubt it. Her mother's pale face, her uncle's anxious looks, his wish that a physician should be consulted, all returned to her remembrance, and all confirmed Mrs Danvers' words. Her senses nearly forsook her, her head grew giddy, the lights, the people, the music, seemed to have passed away, and the only thing of which she was sensible was a burthen of intolerable misery. Even tears did not come to her relief; for she was stunned by the suddenness of the shock, and, silent and motionless, she remained unnoticed and unthought of till the company had passed into the library; and then, with a sudden impulse to escape from the brilliant room and the sound of gaiety, she ran up-stairs towards her mother's chamber. Still, however, she had sufficient self-possession to feel that she might be wrong to venture there suddenly; and passing the room, she continued her way along the gallery, with but one wish—that of finding some place where she might be undiscovered. The sound of footsteps only quickened her movements, and, almost unconscious of her actions, she opened the first door that presented itself, and found herself alone in the chapel. The cold light of the moon was shining full into the building, touching with its clear rays the deep moulding of the arches and the rich tracery of the windows, and bringing out into an unnatural distinctness the sculptured figure of the old Baron of Emmerton, whose still features seemed to retain, even in death, the holy, humble spirit which, it was said, had animated them in life. At another time Amy might have felt frightened, but the one overpowering idea in her mind prevented the entrance of every other, and there was a quietness and holiness in the place, which in some degree restored her to herself, for it brought vividly before her the remembrance of Him to whom it had been dedicated, and who at that moment she knew was watching over her. She had, however, but a few moments for reflection, when the door opened, and some one entered the private gallery. Amy tried to hide herself, but Miss Morton's voice in an instant gave her ease and comfort; and, unable to speak, she threw herself upon her neck, and burst into tears.
"Amy! my dear, dear Amy!" exclaimed Miss Morton, "what can be the meaning of this? Why are you here?"
Amy only replied by repeating the word "mamma," in a tone of such deep misery, that Miss Morton's heart for the moment misgave her.