The sketch had lain on the ground unheeded. Amy took it up. ‘It will be to me the silent witness of what has this day happened,’ she said, ‘and the dearest treasure I possess, Herbert, when you are gone from me. Now one little favour I beg, that you will sketch in ourselves,—me, as I lay fainting on the bank yonder, and you as you bent over me; for I think it was there and then I first heard you say you loved me, Herbert. To me it will be a comfort and a solace till you return, and then we will come here together, and you shall see that not a shrub or flower has been altered. Four years you said, dearest! they will soon pass, and I confess I have hope beyond what I thought I should ever have possessed. Four years! methinks in anticipation they are already gone, and we sit here,—you a bronzed soldier with a thousand tales for me to hear, and I will sit at your feet and listen, your unchanged and unchangeable Amy.’
Herbert regarded her with intense admiration, for her sadness had passed away; and though tears trembled in her bright eyes with every word she spoke, there was a joyous tone in her voice and in her expression; and his spirit caught that hope from hers which, under other circumstances, would have been denied him.
‘Willingly, most willingly, dearest,’ he said, taking the drawing from her; and in a few moments he had sketched in the figures;—she, raising herself up, had recovered consciousness, and he, bending anxiously over her, had implored her to speak to him. There was such force and tenderness in the attitudes that it told the simple story at a glance.
‘It is too plain, Herbert,’ she said half reproachfully; ‘I shall not dare to show any one your boldest and by far most beautiful sketch; nay, you are even making a likeness of me, which is too bad; but I need not fear, for no one shall ever see it but myself. My last look shall be of it at night, and with that my last thought shall be with you. Now that is enough; I will not have another touch, lest you spoil it; give it me, let me carry it home, and miser-like lock it up from every one but myself.’
‘You may have it if you will, dearest, but I must beg it for to-night at least. I will make a small sketch from it, and will bring it over early to-morrow.’
‘It is only upon your promise not to keep it longer than to-morrow morning that you may have it, Herbert. I am nearly inclined to make you stay at Beechwood to copy it, lest anything should befall it; but I am not selfish enough to detain you from those who love you as dearly as I do.’
Slowly they retraced their steps through every bowery path and open glade; the blossoms of the lime and horse-chestnut filled the air with luscious sweetness, and their broad shadows were flung wide over the richly-coloured sward. They wandered on, hardly heeding the luxuriant beauty of the landscape, with their arms twined round each other, while they spoke in those gentle, murmuring tones, which, though low, were yet distinct, and of which every word was striven to be remembered for years afterwards.
‘My father must know all,’ said Amy, as they approached the house; ‘we have nothing to fear from him, and therefore nothing to conceal; but I dare not speak, Herbert, so—’
‘I do not flinch from the trial, dearest,’ was his reply. ‘If you can bear it, I would rather you were present, but—’
‘No, no, no! I could not bear it, Herbert,’ replied the blushing girl; ‘and I had better not be present, I know, for we should both lose courage. No, you must tell all to papa; and leave me to my own solitude for a while, for indeed I require it. And now here we are at home; I need not say—for you know papa as well as I do—conceal nothing, for we have nothing to conceal.’