"Don't talk in that way, Harriet; that's a good girl," said Miss Aubrey, rather faintly, and, sinking into the chair, she buried her face in her handkerchief, "you know I've had a great deal to go through, Harriet, and am in very poor spirits."
"I know it, ma'am, I do; and that's why I can't bear to leave you!" She sank on her knees beside Miss Aubrey. "Oh, ma'am, if you would but let me stay with you! I've been trying, ever since you first told me, to make up my mind to part with you, and, now it's coming to the time, I can't, ma'am—indeed, I can't! If you did but know, ma'am, what my thoughts have been, while I've been folding and packing up your dresses here! To think that I sha'n't be with you to unpack them! It's very hard, ma'am, that Madam's maid is to go with her, and I'm not to go with you!"
"We were obliged to make a choice, Harriet," said Miss Aubrey, with forced calmness.
"Yes, ma'am; but why didn't you choose us both? Because we've both always done our best; and, as for me, you've never spoke an unkind word to me in your life"——
"Harriet, Harriet," said Miss Aubrey, tremulously, "I've several times explained to you that we cannot any longer afford each to have our own maid; and Mrs. Aubrey's maid is older than you, and knows how to manage children"——
"What signifies affording, ma'am? Neither she nor I will ever take a shilling of wages; I'd really rather serve you for nothing, ma'am, than any other lady for a hundred pounds a-year! Oh, so happy as I've been in your service, ma'am!" she added hastily, and burst into an agony of weeping.
"Don't, Harriet!—You would not, if you knew the pain you give me," said Miss Aubrey, faintly. Harriet perceived Miss Aubrey's ill-concealed agitation; and starting aside, poured out a glass of water, and forced her pale mistress to swallow a little, which presently revived her.
"Harriet," said she, feebly, but firmly, "you have never once disobeyed me, and now I am certain that you will not. I assure you that we have made all our arrangements, and cannot alter them. I have been very fortunate in obtaining for you so kind a mistress as Lady Stratton. Remember, Harriet, she was the oldest bosom friend of my"——Miss Aubrey's voice trembled, and she ceased speaking for a minute or two, during which she struggled against her feelings with momentary success. "Here's the prayer-book," she presently resumed, opening a drawer in her dressing-table, and taking out a small volume—"Here's the prayer-book I promised you; it is very prettily bound, and I have written your name in it, Harriet, as you desired. Take it, and keep it for my sake. Will you?"
"Oh, ma'am," replied the girl, bitterly, "I shall never bear to look at it! And yet I'll never part with it till I die!"
"Now leave me, Harriet, for a short time—I wish to be alone," said Miss Aubrey; and she was obeyed. She presently rose and bolted the door; and then, secure from interruption, walked slowly to and fro for some time; and a long and deep current of melancholy thoughts and feelings flowed through her mind and heart. She had but a short time before seen her sister's sweet children put into their little beds for the last time at Yatton; and together with their mother, had hung fondly over them, kissing and embracing them—their destined little fellow-wanderers—till her feelings compelled her to leave them. One by one, all the dear innumerable ties which had attached her to Yatton, and to everything connected with it, ever since her birth, had been severed and broken—ties, not only the strength, but very existence of which, she had scarce been aware of, till then. She had bade—as had all of them—repeated and agonizing farewells to very dear and old friends. Her heart trembled as she gazed at the objects familiar to her eye, and pregnant with innumerable little softening associations, ever since her infancy. Nothing around them now belonged to them—but to a stranger—to one who—she shuddered with disgust. She thought of the fearful position in which her brother was placed—entirely at the mercy of, it might be, selfish and rapacious men—what indeed was to become of all of them? At length she threw herself into the large old easy-chair which stood near the window, and with a fluttering heart and hasty tremulous hand, drew an open letter from her bosom. She held it for some moments, as if dreading again to peruse it—but at length unfolded and read a portion of it. 'Twas full of fervent and at the same time delicate expressions of fondness; and after a short while, her hand dropped, with the letter, upon her lap, and she burst into a passionate flood of tears. After an interval of several minutes, she again took up the letter—read a little farther—still more and more moved by the generous and noble sentiments it contained—and at length, utterly overcome, she again dropped her hand, and sobbed aloud long and vehemently. "It cannot—cannot—no, it cannot be," she murmured; and, yielding to her feelings for a long while, her tears showered down her pallid, beautiful cheeks.