“And why not, William? Why should I leave so soon? I’m not afraid of being here, or lying by his side alone: I’ve seen other people die. I saw Mrs Beazeley die—I saw poor Faithful die; and now, they all are dead,” said Amber, bursting into tears, and burying her face in William Aveleyn’s bosom. “I knew that he was to die,” said she, raising her head after a time—“he told me so; but, to think that I shall never hear him speak again—that very soon I shall never see him more—I must cry, William.”
“But your father is happy, Amber.”
“He is happy, I know; but he was not my father, William. I have no father—no friend on earth I know of. He told me all before he died; Faithful brought me from the sea.”
This intelligence roused the curiosity of William Aveleyn, who interrogated Amber, and obtained from her the whole of the particulars communicated by Edward Forster; and, as she answered to his many questions, she grew more composed.
The narrative had scarcely been finished, when Lord Aveleyn, who had been summoned by Robinson, drove to the door, accompanied by Lady Aveleyn, who thought that her presence and persuasions would more readily induce Amber to heave the cottage. Convinced by her of the propriety of the proposal, Amber was put into the carriage without resistance, and conveyed to the Hall, where every thing that kindness and sympathy could suggest was resorted to, to assuage her grief. There we must leave her, and repair to the metropolis.
“Scratton,” said Mr John Forster to his clerk, who had answered the bell, “recollect I cannot see any one to-day.”
“You have several appointments, sir,” replied the clerk.
“Then send, and put them all off.”
“Yes, sir; and if any one calls, I am to say that you are not at home?”
“No, I am at home; why tell a lie? but I cannot see any body.”