"I must, indeed I must see her!" exclaimed Amy; "I do not want to speak, only to look at her; and I will try to bear everything," she added, earnestly, though the tears again filled her eyes as she spoke.
"I wish," said Emily, "you could have listened to Dr Bailey's opinion yourself: I only heard it accidentally as I met him in the hall. He seemed to think that if your papa came home soon, Mrs Herbert would get well almost immediately."
"I do not think he will come now," said Amy; "it seems all changed, and my uncle wishes us not to think about it."
Emily hardly knew what reply to make; she had so many fears upon the subject herself, that she dared not give Amy the hope which she desired, and could only again beg her to try and trust all things to the will of God, and to feel that He whose child she was, would be her comfort in every affliction.
"Will they miss me?" said Amy, as they left the gallery; "do you think my aunt will ask where I am gone?" The question showed that her mind had returned to something like its natural state, and Emily felt considerably relieved.
"I will take care to make your excuse," she said, "if any observation is made; but, dearest, you must promise me not to sit by yourself, and dwell upon all the possible evils that may happen. I do not think you will, for your mamma's sake; it will make her worse to see you unhappy."
"I would try for you," said Amy, "I would do anything—yes, anything in all the world for you."
"Anything but believe that your mamma will get well," said Emily; "and yet that is what I most wish you to do now."
Amy's only answer was an entreaty that she then would come to her again as soon as she could, and sadly and noiselessly she stole into her mother's room.
Mrs Herbert's sleep was calm as the sleep of a weary child; her breathing was regular and gentle, and her face had lost the painful expression of anxiety which was seldom absent from it at other times. There was a slight tinge of colour upon her pale cheek, and almost a smile upon her lips, and it appeared as if the rest of the mind, which was denied to her waking life, had been mercifully granted to her in her dreams. But Amy, as she stood by her side, did not notice this; she saw only the pale, worn features, and the thin, delicate hand which was resting on the book her mother had been reading, and every moment seemed to force upon her more and more the truth of Mrs Danvers' words. Yet her self-command did not again leave her; and seating herself on a low stool by the sofa, she continued to watch and listen to every breath with an intense anxiety, which made her insensible to all but the present moment. Still Mrs Herbert slept, and still Amy watched, and by degrees the first overpowering feeling diminished, and her thoughts returned to the past—to her peaceful home, the cottage, which she had once almost despised, with its sloping lawn and its beautiful flowers, and the arbour where her happiest hours had been spent; to the quietness of her morning lessons, and the enjoyment of her afternoon rambles; and, above all, to the unwearying care which had guarded her from every evil, and ministered to her hourly gratification; and as she remembered these things, and then gazed upon her mother's face, it seemed as if every feeling of affection which she had hitherto experienced had been but cold and ungrateful—as if now, for the first time, she had known what it was really to love her. Of Emmerton, too, she thought, and of her aunt, and Dora, and Margaret, and the possibility that their home might be hers for the future; and while pondering upon the idea, the very comfort of the room in which she was sitting, with its rich crimson curtains and thick carpet, and luxurious chairs, and the soft, mellow light of the lamp burning on the table—all became oppressive. They had made her envious and discontented when she was happy, and now they could give her no comfort when she was sorrowful. What would all the riches of the world be to her without her mother? On the possibility of her father's return she could at first dwell but little; for it was difficult to believe it very near, and if it were delayed it might be too late to be of use, and a meeting under such circumstances would be almost worse than a continued separation. But Amy's spirit was too buoyant in its nature to remain long depressed by such forebodings; there was a brighter side to the picture, and Miss Morton had entreated her to think of it. Colonel Herbert might be on his voyage home, he might even be in England at that very time, and then every one said her mamma would recover. For one moment she believed that it might be so, and her heart bounded with delight, though immediately afterwards it sunk again into doubt and suspense; and at length, worn out with anxiety, she laid her head against her mother's pillow, and slept also. The distant sound of the music, and the hum of voices below, mingled strangely with her sad thoughts, and her rest was far different from her mother's. Visions of India, such as it had often been described to her, of her father in health and happiness, and her mamma on her sick bed, and of the cottage, and Emmerton, and her cousins, were blended together in her dreams, now bringing before her scenes of sorrow and trial, and then changing them suddenly into happiness. Sorrow indeed prevailed; yet the hope which had cheered her before she slept was associated with it, and even when her wandering fancy pictured most vividly some painful trial, her father's image was at hand, to comfort and support her. Half an hour passed away, and Amy's slumber still continued restless but unbroken, whilst in her dream she was walking with her father on the terrace at Emmerton, describing to him her mother's illness, and begging him to go back with her to the cottage, when a strange, unusual sound fell upon her ear; and as she turned to inquire from him the cause, she awoke. The sound was apparently so real, that even when her recollection was completely recovered, Amy could not entirely believe it was only a dream, and she listened eagerly to discover what was passing below. The music had ceased, but there did not seem to be any preparations for departure, or the carriages would have been heard as they drove up to the house; and yet there were distant sounds of bustle, doors were opened and shut hastily, and voices were earnest in conversation, while servants were moving quickly along the gallery. Amy thought and wondered, and, without understanding her own ideas, grew excited and anxious. She longed for her mother to wake, that she might listen also; and at length, unable to remain quietly in her room, she walked softly into the ante-room. It looked out upon the front entrance, and the bright moonlight made everything appear almost as clear as day. Still unable to comprehend what was going on, she went to the window; there was a carriage at the door, and she wondered that she had not heard it approach, but still no one was departing, and bags and luggage were being removed from it. Amy looked on for a few moments, and then a thought of unspeakable happiness passed across her mind, a thought so overpowering that it was gone in the next instant. She felt that it was only fancy; but it made her run to the door and again listen with breathless earnestness. Foot-steps were heard upon the stairs; she knew them well—they were her uncle's, and her spirit sickened with disappointment; they came nearer—and then she felt sure some one else was with him. It might be Dr Bailey returned again, or Mr Dornford, or any one, yet Amy's heart beat till she could scarcely stand. More slowly (so it appeared to her) than he had ever moved before, Mr Harrington passed along the gallery, and she was just going to meet him when he entered the room alone. Amy turned deadly pale, and did not speak; but when she looked in her uncle's face, her vanished hope revived. He asked, indeed, only how her mother was; but his voice was quick and unnatural; there was a bright, restless glance in his eye, and a strange smile upon his lips.