Amy Herbert

by Elizabeth Missing Sewell

CHAPTER XXXII.

It was a calm and sunny morning on which little Rose was carried to her grave, and with it came a feeling of hope and peace to some of the family at Emmerton, for it was the promise of the spring amid the dreariness of winter; and those who had accustomed themselves to read the truths of religion in the silent language of nature could not but view it as the type of that morning of the Resurrection—the spring-time of eternity—when they might trust to receive again the treasure from which they were now called to part for a season.

Many of the cottagers were assembled to watch the melancholy train as it wound through the village; for Rose had been a favourite with all, and there had been heavy hearts and sorrowing faces when it was first known that she would never visit them again; and by a few amongst them, also, the brightness of the morning was welcomed with satisfaction; for although, to careless minds, the gay sunshine appeared but a mockery on a day of so much sadness, they who were more chastened by affliction felt that it suited well with the beauty and innocence of a child who had been taken to happiness before she had tasted of sorrow. Several, to show their respect for Mr Harrington, followed the procession to the church; and amongst them old Stephen, notwithstanding his age and infirmities, placed himself the foremost. He had borne the intelligence of the accident, and its consequences, with tolerable composure, after the first shock was past; for he was an old man, he said, and 'twould be but a very few years, perhaps not one, before he trusted he should see her sweet little face again. It might be hard for those who were young to see others taken away, but 'twas very different for the old. He had had a warning lately; and perhaps the next time the bell tolled it might be for him.

Yet, notwithstanding his outward calmness, Stephen felt deeply in his heart; he was anxious and restless, longing to be able to move, that he might go to Emmerton and get permission to look once more upon his little pet; and at last when dissuaded from attempting it, he declared that nothing should prevent him from attending at her funeral, if it were only as a mark of his duty to the family.

The exertion was greater than in prudence he should have made; but Stephen had seldom been ruled even by those whom he called his masters; and he kept to his determination, and slowly and with difficulty walked to the church. It was nearly filled; and Mr Walton, as he looked upon the sorrowing faces which surrounded him, felt that his task was a difficult one; but his thoughts turned from Rose lying in her coffin to Rose as she really was—an angel in heaven, and the weight passed from his heart, and he was enabled firmly and unfalteringly to go through the service. Mr Harrington's face was of a deadly paleness, though he remained perfectly calm till the moment when the body of his darling child was lowered to its resting-place in the tomb of her ancestors; but then his fortitude forsook him; and when the earth fell with a dull, heavy sound upon the coffin, he covered his face with his hands, and leaned against the wall for support, vainly endeavouring to conceal his grief.

There were few present who did not participate in it; and when he left the church many glances of sympathy were cast on him by persons with whose names even he was unacquainted; but Stephen could not be contented with looks; forgetting the years that had elapsed since he had held him in his arms, and taught him to guide his pony, and conscious only of the affection which he felt for the family, he stopped him as he passed the churchyard gate, and seizing both his hands exclaimed—"'tis a sad day for us all, sir, and there's none but will feel for you; only we would not have her back again, for she was too good for this world."

"Thank you, thank you, Stephen," said Mr Harrington, returning the pressure warmly; "we will talk another day, but not now."

"No, not now," replied Stephen; "only I couldn't help letting your honour see that I thought of you. I must go home now;" adding, to himself, "the Colonel, I suppose, will hardly remember me."

"The Colonel will remember you, though, Stephen," said Colonel Herbert, taking his hand. "It would be a hard thing to come back to England, and forget one's oldest and best friends. But I shall see you soon, I hope, in your own cottage, when we are all better and happier."

"I don't like my cottage as I did," replied Stephen, "I shall often think it was the cause of it all,—not but what it's wrong, though; for God's will was the cause, and His will must be done."