"It is the first time," said Fanny to herself, as she parted with Alice that night—"the first time that I have ever acted a part: but I would not have her suspect my feelings; and why do I feel so?"
Thus thought Fanny, as she sat down upon a rock by the roadside, and could not keep back the tears which came from a heart never so sad before. And why so sad? Fanny had been, for a few hours, in close converse with one who every day was becoming more and more meet for an inheritance with the saints in light. She had ridiculed and set at defiance the most common rules of politeness; but what was she to do with the self-forgetting, affectionate courtesy which she had seen, not forced nor constrained, but beaming forth so sweetly, so naturally, from those young disciples of Christ? Fanny felt that, however deceitful the world's polite intercourse might be, this was holy:—and how can sin approach purity without fear and trembling? She felt this mysterious fear. The reckless girl, whose highest boast had always been that she feared nothing, now trembled, as in imagination she changed places with Emma, and stood where she saw her standing,—upon the brink of the tomb.
It was on this evening that Emma was summoned to her mother's room. She found her mother sitting alone with Martha. There was no light there save moonlight, and Emma was glad, for she knew that her own countenance was deathly; and she had known that for weeks her mother had watched her narrowly.
"Emma, my dear," said Mrs. Lindsay, "you understand the reason of my coming to this place—that it was solely on your account."
"Yes, mamma," said Emma.
"I have invited some of the gayest of our young friends," continued Mrs. Lindsay, "to keep us company; and all this because I wanted you to make the most of being in the country. I have them here, my love, to talk, to ride, to run, and walk with you. This was the advice of your physician. He said that you would soon become healthy and happy, provided his directions were faithfully followed: but they are not; and how can we expect these favorable results? You neither ride nor walk with suitable company; not that I care much about your present associations. If they are conducive to health, that is sufficient: but I have reason to think, dear, that you spend a great part of your time alone—that you go into the woods, not with your gay young friends (as the doctor requires) to run and have a good frolic, but to sit down and read. Is it not so?"
"Yes, mamma," said Emma, "it is so. I cannot run now, and I get very tired in walking only a short distance; but it rests me, dear mother, to read the Bible."
"But how can I have you go away alone to read your Bible, and think sadly of—being so weak?" asked her mother.
"Not sadly," replied Emma; "I do not think sadly, mother, for all the sadness is gone; and if I have not become healthy, I certainly have become happy, very happy, since we came to Appledale. It is true that I see a great deal to be done now, and wish sometimes that those who have the prospect of years before them would undertake this work."
"I am glad that you mentioned this," said Mrs. Lindsay; "you have imbibed some of Dora's strange notions, my dear, about living for others. You may be assured, Emma, that I have not sacrificed so much for any object save that of your health. I did not leave the society of the refined and intelligent for the sake of benefiting the rude and ignorant; and I would have you remember what was my object. You have nothing to do with this community only with a view to your health. If such society amuses you, mingle with it freely, but waste no thoughts upon the people here. They have always taken care of themselves, and can do this still without any help from little Emma Lindsay."